Kiss Your Bruises
by Sandiane Carter
Summary: He's hurt; she thinks she can help. Takes place some time during S4, after Cuffed. Happy unbirthday, Laura! I love you.
1. Chapter 1

_Don't fall, but if you do_

_I'll be there to kiss your bruises_

Lindsay Katt,"Heart Place"

* * *

><p>"Castle. Castle –"<p>

Her next words – _take it easy_ – die on her lips as he stumbles into his loft, catches himself on the wall, whimpers in pain.

Kate sighs, resists the urge to close her eyes and gets inside the loft after him, pushing the door closed with more strength than necessary. She hangs her coat slowly, takes off her shoes and waits an extra second to gather herself, scrape together all the patience she can find.

She's going to need it.

When she turns, he's still in the same place, sagged against the wall, head tilted, eyes closed. The crutches are lying on the floor, useless.

If his face weren't so pale, you'd think he was sleeping. Except, well, the wall is probably not the most comfortable spot ever.

"Come on, Castle," she says at last, annoyance receding and leaving room for tenderer, more dangerous feelings. She comes closer and puts her arm around his waist so that he can lean on her.

He grunts, licking his lips, and shifts his weight from the wall to her. She's doubly glad she got rid of her heels for this: better for balance, and also easier for him to use her as a crutch if she's shorter.

Jeez, he's *heavy*. She doesn't know what the doctors gave him, but it must be good stuff, because his consciousness seems…drifting at best. He sways against her, and she stills for a second, unwilling to have them both stumbling to the floor.

When his stride seems a little surer, they make the rest of the way to his bedroom. It's the one place in the loft that she's never seen, and despite her best intentions her eyes stray, moving from the incredibly comfortable-looking armchair to the wall-sized painting, noticing the warm colors, the oranges and reds and browns.

Burnt sienna, she thinks, is the name for it; the bedclothes are the same shade. Castle sprawls over them without warning, moans unhappily when his ankle hits the side of the bed.

Kate winces and tries to help, but he's already curled on the coverlet, clothes and shoes on (well, *shoe* on), his face mashed into the sheets, as if she wasn't here. And maybe he's forgotten that she is.

Kate chews on her bottom lip and carefully sits on the side of the bed, runs her fingers through Castle's hair, unable to help herself. She massages his nape, gentle and soft (he won't remember, right?) and wonders if it's worth trying to get more painkillers in him.

The nurse who discharged him did say he'd be good for a while, that the drugs they've given him would keep his ankle from hurting for the next couple hours. But still.

"Castle?" she murmurs, uncertain.

"Go away," he whispers pitifully, the ghost of a childish pout on his lips.

Kate can't help a smile. She can't wait until he wakes up for good and she gets to tell him that she was in his bedroom, sitting on his bed, and he told her to go away.

She lingers a moment more, listening to the sounds of his breathing evening out, then leaves reluctantly. She needs to put ice in the freezer. The doctor said to apply cold packs to the injury to help with the swelling, not continuously, but only for ten or twenty minutes at a time; she's hoping that she'll find ice cubes or frozen vegetables in his fridge, something she can use for now.

Just when she reaches the kitchen, the vibration of her phone in her pocket startles her; Kate gets it out, sighs in relief when Alexis's picture flashes on the screen. She tried calling before, but she got no answer.

"Alexis, hi."

"Detective Beckett, is something wrong?" the girl asks anxiously, the words almost too fast for Beckett to make sense of them. "I was in a shop with my mom and apparently there was no signal in there, so I only saw the missed calls when I got out, and I tried calling Dad, but he didn't answer – his phone rang and rang and he _never_ does that, he always answers – and you would never call me except if something was wrong and I thought–"

"Alexis, calm down," Kate says, using her best detective voice, but trying to instil some soothing peace in it. "It's nothing serious. Your dad will be fine."

She can hear the trembling, tear-filled sigh of the girl on the other end of the line, and she sinks her teeth into her lower lip, trying to smother the guilt and hurt that rise up.

Trying to shut up the part of her brain viciously suggesting that if it weren't for her, Alexis Castle would have no reason to panic when her dad doesn't answer his phone straight away.

"Nothing serious. But – but he's hurt?"

Kate sighs, runs a hand through her hair. She didn't have time to braid it this morning, because she got an early call for a body and had to leave in a hurry, and she misses it – the tidiness, the cleanliness of the braid instead of those messy curls.

She needs control over some part of her life.

"Your dad sprained his right ankle. We were – we were chasing after a suspect, and the idiot thought it might be a brilliant idea to trip us up. I just fell on my hands, but your dad twisted his ankle pretty badly."

Alexis doesn't need to know how Kate's heart hurt to see Castle's face so white, lips pressed into a thin line, see him struggle not to cry out. That's the thing that alerted her – that he kept assuring her he was fine, that he was silent in the car when the man she knows would milk it for all it's worth, complain and whimper and maybe ask for a kiss to make it better.

Well, maybe not. Not in the state of things. He's done a great job of lying low lately, and she sort of…sort of misses it. The innuendos and the eyebrow wiggling and the general Castle cheer.

"Oh, Dad." Alexis says softly, pulling her out of it. "Did you – catch the guy though?"

Kate smirks. "Oh, yeah." And Esposito and Ryan weren't too tender when they put the cuffs on him, sat him down in the car.

"Good," the girl says, and there's something in her voice, something darker than Beckett is used to. Silence stretches between them, but it's filled with mutual understanding, not awkward at all. "Is he in pain?" Alexis asks timidly. There's no question who she means.

"Right now, they gave him some really good painkillers, and he's asleep," Kate reassures her, trying to find a smile in her. "I think he's out for a while."

"Okay," Alexis answers. "Well, I should probably be here when he wakes, right? I'm looking at the flights right now – I can probably get one tonight if –"

"Alexis, I –" Kate interrupts, then mentally thumps her own head. Not her place, not her place.

But Castle seemed so convinced that a few days in California with her mom would do Alexis good, would take her mind off Ashley and their still-fresh breakup.

"Yes?"

The detective sighs. Damn. Now she's in for it.

"I don't think – from…what I've heard, your dad seems to feel pretty strongly about you getting time alone with your mom, and I'm not sure –"

"He needs me," Alexis states slowly, as if she's surprised that Kate can't see it. "Who else is going to take care of him? I mean – you said sprain, so I'm guessing he shouldn't move around for the next couple days, and Gran is too busy to keep him company, that's for sure…"

"I'm here," Kate says, feeling stupidly defensive. She doesn't like the way Alexis said this, like Castle doesn't have anyone but his mother and daughter. He does – he has friends at the precinct, very good friends, and then he has her –

The woman who didn't speak to him for a whole summer. The woman who nearly got him killed a couple times. Yes, she knows how it must look to Alexis.

"You?" the girl says, sounding surprised, but not opposed to it.

Relief makes it a little easier to breathe.

"Yeah, I… You're only in California for three more days, aren't you? And – I have days off piled up that I honestly should start using, so I can just…Hold the fort until you get back."

More silence, and, yeah – this one is a little bit awkward.

Kate isn't sure what's going on here. What is she doing? This is *not* the plan.

She did take today off (had to fight with Gates to make Esposito lead detective on this one) – but that was only so she could keep an eye on him until Alexis got here. And now she's offering…what, exactly? To babysit Castle until his daughter comes back?

Three days of watching over him? This isn't smart. This is stupid. *Stupid*, Kate.

And yet she keeps quiet, because there's a part of her who's eager to do this, help him, give something back for all the things he's given her. Or it might all be springing from seeing Castle's face clenched in pain earlier today, no trace of the usual spark in his clear blue eyes. Hard to tell.

She doesn't want to look at her reasons too closely, so she holds her breath, waits for Alexis's verdict.

"Uh," the girl hedges, after a long moment. "O..kay? But – are you sure? I mean – Dad can be a piece of work, and if he can't _move_…"

Kate laughs, the sound a little forced, a little raw. "Trust me, Alexis, I know. I have a pretty good idea what to expect here."

Except she doesn't. She has no idea at all; this is silly, ridiculous –

"Well, okay, then," Castle's daughter says slowly, robbing Kate of her chance to retract. "If you're sure…I think my mom's enjoying having me here, for once."

_For once_. Kate's heart squeezes in empathy. She may have lost her own mother when she was nineteen, but at least she has no idea what it feels like not to be wanted. Not to be mothered and scolded and loved.

"Good," she forces herself to say. "Good. I'll see you in three days, then."

"Yeah. And, Kate?" the girl adds after a second of hesitation.

"Yes?"

"You'll – you'll take care of him, right?"

She hears what Castle's daughter isn't saying, a faint echo of that day at the bank – _he's all I have. _Kate's chest tightens; the bullet scar throbs, itches.

"I promise, Alexis."

"Thank you," the teenager murmurs, a little hurried, and then she hangs up.

Kate is left staring at her phone in Castle's empty kitchen, wondering what the hell exactly she just got into.

* * *

><p>Rick Castle comes back to awareness in stages. The familiar sensation of his bed under him greets his hazy mind first, then the fuzziness of the meds slowly clears up his consciousness; that, in turn, leaves him open to the dull throb of pain in his ankle.<p>

It sharpens at regular intervals, tiny needles digging into his skin, then recedes like the tide; Castle uses one of these moments to catch his breath, roll onto his back.

He bites his tongue, hard, to keep from yelping; the pain has flared in his leg, leapt at him like a lioness that's spotted an easy prey.

"Hey, Castle," a soft, familiar voice greets, and he opens his eyes again, surprised to find them closed in the first place.

Is he dreaming? He must be dreaming.

He can't think of any possible reason why Kate Beckett would be sitting on the other side of his bed, sitting with her back to the pillows, a book in her lap.

"Am I dreaming?" he asks, since apparently his mouth has lost its connection to his brain. "Or cuffed?" he adds as an afterthought, looking down at his wrist.

Kate gives him that closed-lip smile that looks like she's trying to keep herself from laughing; just the sight of her is enough to soothe the ache in his ankle, make him forget about it.

"Neither," she says. "But you do have a sprained ankle."

Ah. Memory floods him at once; the case and the suspect and how running after him led to tripping and this hard landing on the cold stone. The flash of red-hot pain, the burn in his foot, calf, everywhere.

Beckett took him to the ER.

Still. That doesn't explain why she's here. (_In his bedroom_. His mind is having trouble letting go of that one.)

"Alexis," he says, then remembers his daughter is in California with Meredith. Ah. That might explain Kate's presence.

"I called her," Kate says, and she's got this strange look on her face, not shame exactly, more like – regret? Ug, no, that's not it either. She looks like she's not sure she did the right thing.

"And I'm guessing that she's rushing back here, cutting short her vacation with Meredith," he sighs. He does _not_ want to encroach on the little time his daughter gets to spend with her mother; he knows Meredith is not the most perfect mom ever, but still. She does love Alexis. And sometimes he feels that his daughter needs to be reminded of this.

"Actually –" Kate pauses, licks her bottom lip, not looking at him.

He's not sure what's going on here, but he's definitely interested.

"What?"

"I, uh, might have convinced her to stay in California."

She _what_?

"Are you serious?"

He'd have expected his daughter to jump at the first occasion of flying back to the city. And Alexis can be pretty stubborn when she's set her mind on something.

"Are you – are you mad?" Kate asks, and yes, he's certain of it – there's a streak of nervousness to her voice.

"Mad?" He laughs. "I'm stunned. I have no idea how you did this. But no, definitely not mad. I do want Alexis to spend as much time with her mom as possible."

"Oh, good," she sighs, and he thinks she's trying not to look relieved, but it's not working so well.

"So how'd you do it?" He tries to sit up as he says the words, and he does manage it; only, his whole body lets him know throughout, rather forcefully, that it's not very happy with him right now.

"Castle?"

Kate's voice makes him realize that he closed his eyes again – he clenches his teeth, looks at her. So beautiful, even with concern etched all over her face.

Concern. His stomach flutters, the silly thing.

"Should have asked you this before," she curses at herself under her breath, turns to grab something on the bedside table. "How's the pain? They gave me stuff that you can take – here, two of those pills, and water to go with it…"

He doesn't argue, takes it all; water, pills, anything she has to give him. And then as he waits for the acute pain to ebb, he hears Kate moving around him, squeezing pillows between him and the bedhead, pushing him against them with a gentle shove of her hand.

"What are you, my nurse?" he jokes feebly, cracking an eye open to get a look at her.

She stills for the briefest moment, cuts her eyes to him before looking away. He can't quite identify that expression on her face, doesn't think he's ever seen it before.

It only takes two seconds – so fast, too fast – before she's in control again, saying with a smirk, "Dream on, Castle."

Oh, he wishes –

"So you got Alexis to stay in California," he says, suddenly remembering where the conversation left off. "I'm curious to know how you managed that."

"How do you know I had to do anything? Maybe she just wasn't so worried about you. Maybe she just wanted to stay in sunny LA, shopping with her mom, instead of taking care of her whiny old man in snowy New York."

Ha. Classical Beckett evasion. Poking at his ego to make him forget about his question.

"Nice," he says. "But I know my daughter."

Kate averts her eyes. He watches her, mesmerized, as she bites her lip, weighs her answer, and then makes a decision.

"I might have told her I'd take care of you," she says in a deliberately light voice.

His heart stutters.

"Take care of me?" he can't help saying, even though his mind is screaming _shut up shut up just be grateful you moron. _

Kate finally turns to him, her face undecipherable, although he thinks there's a shadow of hesitation at the corner of her mouth, a glint of uncertainty at the back of her eyes. He's learned to read her over the years, but still - this is no exact science.

"Why not?" she shrugs, her voice too relaxed, like she's taking pains to erase any roughness. "That's what friends do. Watch each other's back. Help each other when they're wounded."

Ah. Friends.

Really? Are they still there?

"O-kay," he says, deciding to play along. "Just exactly how much…care are we talking about here?"

He's proud of himself on that one; her mouth remains that pursed, severe line, but her eyes warm up, laugh at him.

"Don't get your hopes up, Castle. I'm *not* acting out your nurse fantasies."

"Ah well," he sighs in mock consternation. "How about the shower ones then?"

He gets pillowed on the face for that one, but he doesn't really mind.

* * *

><p>She quickly realizes that keeping Richard Castle immobile is not going to prove, in the long run, a feasible thing. He argues and whines and begs about being left alone in his bedroom; the discussion ends with her relenting (it's either that or handcuffing him to the bed, and she thinks the tiger is still a little too fresh on their minds for the second solution).<p>

She'll get him the crutches, if he promises to sit in the living room's couch and keep his foot elevated.

"Don't you want to be my crutch?" he asks, giving her the charming grin that might get to her if his eyebrows weren't involved too.

She laughs instead, vaguely surprised at herself for letting it out. But god, it feels good. It's been a stressful day.

"I'll pass, Castle, but thanks."

He can't even pretend to be hurt; she catches remnants of awe in his eyes when she stops laughing, has to physically turn away from him.

He's been more careful with this lately. Done less staring, kept his face under control – giving her the space she asked for, probably. She almost never catches him like this, his love for her bare, beaming out of his eyes.

And why should he let her see? After all, she did hide away from him all summer. Never called once. She's still uncertain how to go about fixing this, them. Castle hasn't alluded to it since that day at the bookstore.

He acts like everything's okay again, but she knows better.

The thing is… There's no use in trying to fix the damage she did this summer as long as the wall's still up. So she'll have to be content with this for now, with helping him out for a couple days, and doing what she can.

The rest – the rest will come later.

She has to believe it will.

In the meantime, she can start with bringing him the crutches he left in front of the door.

* * *

><p>Castle hauls himself into the living room with relatively little pain involved; the pills must be kicking in already.<p>

He moves towards the kitchen, but Kate's voice cracks through the room, all authority and underlying threats. "Couch, Castle."

He sighs, but redirects his steps towards the black leather seats, sinks into one of them.

"And I want to see your foot elevated."

He's about to remark on her bossiness – it's on the tip of his tongue – but he's always been rather turned-on by this side of her, the _do as I say_ side, and it's probably in his best interest to keep silent.

Rick twists awkwardly to grab a few cushions, prop his foot up with them; to his – very great – surprise, Kate detours from her straight path to the kitchen to come and help him.

"You good like this?" she asks when his ankle is secured between two cushions, resting on top of a third.

"Uh, yeah," Castle answers a little stupidly, trying to get over the feel of her light fingers over his wrapped foot.

He catches a semblance of smile on the corner of her lips as she turns away. Is she enjoying this? He can't wrap his mind around it – for some reason, he really can't picture her playing nurse.

"What do you want for dinner?" she asks, looking around in his kitchen.

Uh.

"Are you gonna cook for me?"

He should probably wipe the disbelief and smug satisfaction off his voice, but he's not sure it's even possible.

"I *can* cook, Castle," she replies, cleverly sidestepping the most important part of his question (_for me_). "I think I've proven that already."

This might be the closest Kate Beckett has ever come to blushing in the four years he's known her. Delicious. But if the domesticity of it all makes her uncomfortable, then he'll ignore it. For now, anyway.

"I don't know," he says with an eyebrow arched. "I did see that breakfast, but never got around to eating it."

"Wasn't my fault," she shoots back as she opens a cabinet, tiptoes to inspect its contents.

Kate Beckett in his home. He just can't get over it.

It has happened before. Only two years ago, actually, and yet it seems like another lifetime, as far as he's concerned. Was he such a different man then?

"What are you making?" he asks, unwilling to let himself dwell on this.

"I don't know," she answers, her voice muffled by the sounds of the cabinet door closing. "Depends on whether you have –" she opens the door of the fridge, pauses.

He's suddenly very glad that he went grocery shopping before Alexis left – okay, that Alexis _dragged_ him grocery shopping before she left.

"Oh. You have – everything," she states quietly, sounding surprised and maybe, maybe a little overwhelmed.

"When's the last time you put food in *your* fridge, Beckett?" he teases, hoping to shake her out of it. It works; her green eyes turn to him, narrow, death-threatening slits.

"Shut up or you won't get to taste what I'm making."

"But what _are_ you making?" he whines, frustrated because he can't really see what she's doing.

"Castle." She stops pulling out ingredients to give him a look that's equal parts amusement and tenderness – his heart squirms to see it. "What makes you even *think* that I would tell you?"

He sighs. She has a point.

"You're evil," he remarks nonchalantly.

Kate gives him a sly grin, and her eyes darken even as she seems to hold back a laugh. "You have no idea."

* * *

><p>Peeling the vegetables takes longer than she expected, but the good thing with borscht is that once you've done that, you only have to let them stew together for a while. Only requires minimum attention.<p>

Castle is being surprisingly quiet, and Kate glances at him, finds him busy with his iPhone. Probably trying out the latest apps. Last week, he was all about the Rubik's Cube one - spent hours puzzling over it while she was doing paperwork. Until she grabbed his phone and solved the thing for him in a handful of seconds. She smirks at the memory.

The look on his face was *so* worth it.

She puts a lid on the large pot and sets the timer, then cleans up the chopping board and the rest of the things. The sound of the water running seems to rouse him; she can feel his attention shifting back to her, can hear him trying to get up.

"Sit, Castle," she orders without looking, rinsing the last knife and putting it away.

At least he heeds her; a muffled sound tells her that he's slumped down in the couch again, and when she turns, a typical Richard Castle pout greets her.

"You're not supposed to do the dishes," he says, his tone a strange mixture of complaint and threat. "You're a guest, Beckett. You're not even supposed to put stuff in the dishwasher –"

"And who will do it? You?" She walks around the kitchen island, gets her own seat in front of him. These armchairs of his are sinfully comfortable; she tucks her legs under her, enjoying the soft feel of the leather.

"In case you didn't hear the first time, Castle, you're supposed to be resting. Doctor's orders. And I'm here to help, so I'm sorry, but you'll have to get used to it. I'm going to be doing the dishes for the next few days. Probably a couple other things, too."

He looks at her appraisingly, like he's assessing his chances to change her mind (he has none).

"You staying here?" he asks suddenly, catching her off-guard. She can hear the tiniest pitch of need, of hope in his voice, undermining the confident tone he's tried to pull off. It gets to her.

Makes her soft. Ug.

"Yeah, Castle. Unless you don't want me to."

He arches his eyebrows at her, an eloquent way of saying _are you kidding me_?

"Don't make me answer that, Kate," he says gently, and there's something sad and sweet at the back of his eyes, something that makes her heart wrench in guilt and desolation.

She looks down at her hands, trying to keep her mind away from the implications of Castle's words – how much he loves her, wants her, how much she has to have hurt him.

But god, she was hurt too, and she couldn't, couldn't –

"Did Gates give you the day off?" he asks curiously, distracting her from her morbid memories from last summer.

"Yeah." Kate smiles, but it's half-hearted. "Just today, though. I got her to make Espo lead detective on this one, but she wouldn't give me more PTO. Only thing she did relent on is that I don't have to be in the precinct if no body drops. Which – as we both know – is rather unlikely."

"You asked Gates for more time off?" He echoes, sounding surprised.

Kate gives him a _duh _kind of look. What does he think she meant by _I'll take care of you?_

"Yes, Castle. Three days. Until Alexis gets back."

He looks stunned. "But."

She watches him try to wrap his mind around it, and obviously fail. "There's – no need. I mean, I could still be at the precinct with you, just, you know. Sitting. And helping."

She can't help the disbelieving laugh that rolls off her lips. "Castle. No."

"Why not?" His tone is plaintive and bordering on indignant.

"What part of _rest_ do you not understand?" she exclaims, because really. That man. She doesn't even have the words for it.

He stares at her, looking vaguely insulted, and she can almost see his gears turning, preparing his next argument. Damn him.

"Castle. Give it a rest, okay?" She doesn't really want to tell him this, but it looks like she has to. "Gates has…expressly asked for you to stay away until you're, better."

Except the captain's words were nowhere near this civilized. More along the lines of _I don't need a damn writer in my precinct, let alone a crippled writer. _

He huffs in annoyance, but he knows she's telling the truth. She can tell.

"Iron Gates finally saw her opportunity to get me kicked out, uh?"

"It's only for a little while," Kate reasons. "Just, you know. Don't provoke her. If you don't show up for a week or so, maybe she'll soften a little."

"Right," he snorts. "And then she'll grow a second head. Just as likely."

He's right, of course, so Kate just keeps silent, gives him time. After a moment, Castle looks up at her, eyebrows knit.

"Seriously, though. I might not be allowed in the precinct, but you are. Don't drop the 12th for me, Kate. I'll be fine on my own. I can even hire someone, if it makes you and Alexis feel better."

Kate is speechless for a few seconds, because this – this is *not* the reaction she would have expected from him. And, ah. Maybe it hurts a little. To hear that he can do without her.

It only makes her more intent on staying here.

"It's only three days, Castle. I'm not dropping anything. And it's not like Gates gave me the days off either. I still have to come in if there's a body."

"Yeah, but. With everything that's going on, you should probably be there anyway. Who knows what Gates will think if you –"

"What do I care what _Gates_ thinks? It's been four months and she's still watching us like we're four-year-olds about to spill the jug of milk. So what if she can't trust anyone, if she's blind to their merits – that's *her* problem, not mine."

She takes a deep breath, surprised at herself, unsure where that came from. She means it – Gates' habit of doubting them is incredibly frustrating, and yes. It irritates the hell out of her. Montgomery, Kate is well aware, spoiled her by trusting her, valuing her and her judgment…but still.

There should be some kind of balance between the two.

Castle has a look of surprise on his face, but there's a little smile tugging at his lips. Pride. Seriously? He's proud of her for saying she doesn't care what Gates thinks?

Ok, it's – kinda sweet, actually. In a twisted, Castle-like way.

"Okay," he says finally. "I'm just saying, you don't have to be here if you don't want to."

How many times does she need to tell him?

"I promised Alexis," she says firmly, looking into his eyes. What the hell is wrong with him? "Why won't you let me do this, Castle?"

"Why are you so hell-bent on doing it?" he shoots back, looking intrigued and rather pleased with himself for cornering her.

And damn, she *is* cornered. She doesn't have an answer ready, doesn't have his ability to weave words together, make them make sense. She stands up because she needs to move, needs to not be looking into his eyes.

Why does it matter so much?

After all, she didn't ask for his help during the sniper case, didn't go to him once – she hid and licked her wounds alone, like an animal, in the shadows of her apartment. So why would *he* need her help?

It's different. It's different. She didn't go to him because it shouldn't be his job to put her back together. He shouldn't have to do it; not when she has *nothing* to give him back.

But she can see how her arguments work both ways, how he could refuse her support because it's not what he wants from her. Because it's part of a greater whole, something she said she wasn't ready for.

She runs a hand through her dark curls, sighs. Surrenders.

"I don't know," she answers, her throat tight and raw, her eyes finding his. "I don't know, Castle."

He studies her instead of answering, his face too serious, solemn almost.

She can't help staring back, staring at the shadows that curl along his jaw and the right side of his face, at the determined line of his mouth and the light shining in his deep blue eyes.

Damn it. Now she wants to kiss him.

She doesn't know if he can see that or not, but he leans back into his armchair then, looking more comfortable. Peaceful.

"Okay," he says, eyes crinkling with a smile that hasn't touched his lips yet. "Let's leave that alone for now. But I'm going to ask something in exchange for my indulgence, Beckett."

She tenses a little, holds her breath. She's never liked deals.

Castle keeps quiet for a few seconds, clearly enjoying himself, before he finally lets out, "I require to know what we're having for dinner."

Air whooshes out of her lungs, and she's unable to stop the breath of relieved laughter that goes with it. Stupid, stupid man.

"Nice try, Castle," she tosses as she goes back into the kitchen to have a look at her soup. "But I'm not telling."

* * *

><p>It's only after he's eaten two platefuls of her delicious soup and exclaimed a half-dozen times about how good it tastes that she finally relents, explains to him that it's called borscht, and is a traditional Ukrainian dish.<p>

"Well," she corrects, always one for accuracy, "most Slavic countries have their own version of borscht, but this particular recipe I got from the grandmother of a friend in Kiev. I only met the woman once, but she was - she was something. I'm sure she'd be proud that you like it so much," she adds with a smile.

Not only did she cook for him, but she made him a Ukrainian soup.

Can Kate Beckett possibly get any sexier?

He cannot keep from staring, so he tries to at least keep the lust off his face. It's just, ever since that time when she played the sexy Russian girlfriend to save his ass from those mobsters –

Kate looks down at her own empty plate, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

"I think you can stop staring now, Castle," she suggests, lifting her eyebrows at him. "Soup's probably getting cold."

She nods at his bowl and he suddenly remembers that he's not finished.

Right. Eating. He goes back to it with a soundless sigh, because as good as borscht tastes, it's nowhere as fascinating as watching the semblance of a blush spread over Kate's lovely cheeks.

When they're finished with dinner, he suggests a glass of wine. Kate bites her lip, gives him a sorry look. "With the pain medication you're on? I doubt that's a good idea, Castle."

Ah, yes. He didn't think of that. Although his ankle *is* starting to bother him a little.

"Some tea?" Kate offers instead, and he nods, even though he's never been a big fan. He distractedly watches her move around – there might be a thought or two about how well she fits in his kitchen – before she finally comes back with two cups, hands him one.

He sniffs, recoils a little from his cup. "What is this?"

"Uh, some herbal tea that I found in your cupboard. Helps you sleep, the label says."

Ugh. Something that his mother left behind, surely. It smells…funny. Kate must catch him grimacing, because she lets out that soft laughing sound that he really, really loves.

"You don't *have* to drink it," she emphasizes, and there's that gorgeous grin on her face, her mouth parted wide, showing teeth. She looks so relaxed; it warms his heart.

"You don't have to either," he reassures her with a lifted eyebrow. It gets him more of that beautiful laugh, and he revels in it, drinks it all in – certainly tastes better than this herbal thing.

"Wanna make it a contest, Castle? First one to finish their herbal tea?"

Ha. "Tempting offer, but I'll have to pass. You'd win."

She seems rather delighted to hear that. He catches a glimpse of her tongue, has to calm down the frenzied thud of his heart. "Giving up already? What have I won, then?"

My heart, he wants to say, but how tacky would that be?

A companionable silence settles between them, and he can't help but remember the last time she was here. After the bank.

She didn't sit across from him that night, no. She sat next to him and then –

His mind longs to go back, to delve into those memories, and well. It might be a good distraction from the pain now throbbing in his leg.

Castle doesn't want the painkillers yet. So he closes his eyes, leans his head back. And remembers.

* * *

><p>Dinner is nice. Castle doesn't often get a chance of eating with his daughter, his mother and Kate Beckett, so he makes the most of it, inscribes every second in his memory. They're all pretending, of course (pretending that everything's fine, that seven hours ago, they weren't all holding their breath in terror) so laughter occasionally comes out a little forced, smiles a little too bright - but Castle still thinks they're doing well.<p>

When their stomachs can't take any more of Martha's delicious food - he has to admit Beckett was right, his mother *really* outdid herself - Alexis stands up and excuses herself with a smile, saying that she's exhausted and in serious need of her bed.

He watches his daughter disappear on top of the stairs, has to smother the urge to follow her. He knows she's not going to pass out from exhaustion, knows that she's going to cry herself to sleep over that unworthy Ashley kid; his dad instinct is screaming, _Go to her. Hold her. Make it better._

But whether he likes it or not, Alexis is not a little girl anymore. He saw it in her eyes, when he went into his study to get her; saw that mixture of hurt, weariness, but maturity too, a beautiful determination that made his heart swell with pride. His daughter is growing up, turning into this amazing young person, and he should give her a chance to work through this by herself. Even though it's killing him.

His mother makes her exit not long after (she apparently has other "life-celebrating" plans tonight). He catches a slight move from Kate at the edge of his vision, prepares himself to hear her say that she should get going as well.

Except she doesn't. She doesn't say anything, only hugs Martha back before the actress leaves the loft, and just like that, they're now standing in his living room. Alone.

Castle isn't sure how much wine he's had, but thankfully, his mind is still clear enough to know that no, yanking Beckett to him and kissing her senseless, burying a hand in her hair and curling the other at her waist, is not the way to go.

"More wine?" he suggests instead, his stubborn brain having trouble letting go of the tantalizing vision.

He sees her hesitate, watches the play of shadows in her gorgeous eyes, fascinated by the way any trace of green disappears in the dim lighting. The only thing left is this entrancing, mesmerizing darkness.

"Okay," she nods in the end. "But just a little."

He respects her wishes, only filling a quarter of her glass before he hands it back to her. She stares at the wine, pensive, slowly trailing her fingers over the rim of the glass; she seems so little interested in it that he thinks she might have said yes for the same reason he offered.

Because she doesn't want to go just yet.

This is a dangerous, dangerous line of thought. He tries to steer his mind away from it by pouring himself wine, and suggesting that they move to the couch.

Kate follows him without a word; when he sits down, she sits next to him. Oh, not close enough for them to be touching, of course, but still. Closer than he would have expected. His whole body buzzes with her nearness; he closes his eyes, attempts to soothe the beast.

"Castle."

Her voice is that strange combination of soft and strong; he doesn't think he's ever heard anyone else manage it. He knows she's not asking for an answer from him, that she's simply preparing herself for what comes next, but he can't help himself.

"Yeah?"

"I'm...really glad you're okay," she says quietly, not looking at him. But her left hand leaves the wine glass, travels over the space between them, curls around his own fingers. He forgets to breathe.

The words find a faint echo in his memory - Jerry Tyson's case - and he can't help but wonder if this is still where they are, if they've only been running in circles since then.

The silence is loud, crippling; he can tell Kate is working at suppressing her own emotion. And for once, he wants to help, wants to get them both to safer grounds. He can't do this tonight, not with the wine, not when the sound of her voice calling, breaking over his name in the bank still resounds through him.

"I knew you'd get me out of there," he says lightly, finding a smile in him.

But she doesn't smile back; she bites at her lip, eyes still staring into the shadows.

"At least one of us was confident," she whispers.

He says nothing to that. Better let her come to him, even though his heart is rattled by the quiet despair that winds its way through her words, by the raw breath that she sucks in. As if to keep herself from crying.

He feels, rather than sees her shake her head, struggling in the dark.

"I," she starts, halts, wavers. But she's gone too far already; no good stopping now. He can tell that she sees that, feels that, when she speaks again. "I think it was one of the hardest things I've ever done, Castle. Walking - out of there - with that gurney. Not knowing -"

If she'd ever see him again. He doesn't need her to finish that sentence; he remembers the feeling just as clearly, torn as he was between wanting her to stay, and the overwhelming relief to know that she'd be safe.

He squeezes her hand gently, turning his palm so that it's pressed to hers.

"Kate."

She's turned her head away from him; he only sees the dark mass of her hair in the dimness, but he can imagine the tears rolling down her cheeks. His chest constricts at the thought, tight knots that hardly let him breathe.

"Kate. I'm alive."

Yeah, that's his great idea. Stating the obvious. He's too numb, too tired to think of anything else; it seems to work anyway because she sniffs, lets out a shaky breath.

"I know, Castle. I just - need a minute."

His beautiful Kate. Always so strong. He can't imagine what today must have been like for her, having to negociate with these men, knowing his life depended on her. Seeing the bank blown up.

Yeah, he had the better end of the deal. This much is clear to him.

He's been tracing slow circles on her wrist, the flat of his thumb against the soft, fragile-looking skin, but suddenly it's not enough. He abandons her hand; his fingers weave their way through her hair, curl around her neck.

She startles, turns back to him with a question written on her face. Her fine lashes brush her cheeks as her eyes flicker down to his lips, come back up; it's her only tell, the only clue she gives him for before she springs into action.

A heartbeat, and her hands are framing his face, the warm strength of her palms against his neck; another and she's risen to her knees to meet him, her chest brushing against his as she twists awkwardly.

Then her lips fumble for his, and there's something adolescent in her kiss - like she's trying to say too much at once - something brittle and a little too eager, something that breaks his heart.

Gone is the confident woman with the mysterious smiles, the smoky looks; in her place is this too-vulnerable creature and her feverish mouth, kissing him like there's no tomorrow. The taste of her tears on his tongue nearly undoes him.

He tries to slow it down, to gentle her, soothe the urgency radiating off her skin; but he finds himself drowning in her scent, in her taste, in the exhilarating reality of Kate Beckett in his arms.

She breaks away, panting into his mouth; he tries to piece himself together, but his confusion is too great, his mind swimming with words like _wall_ and _wait _and _can we please do this again?_

Kate must read the shock on his face; she huffs a little laugh, much more like herself, and he feels an overwhelming rush of gratitude at having her back. She closes her eyes, runs a hand through her hair.

"God. I'm sorry, Castle," she says softly, disengaging herself from him. _It's fine_, he wants to say. _Don't go._ He can't get his lips to move, though, can only watch her as she gets to her feet, smoothes her shirt.

"I'm not sorry," he hears himself blurt out, and even if he could, he wouldn't take the words back. He's not sorry. He's not.

Kate's head swivels to him; her lips are parted and he wonders for a moment if she's blushing. Then she's moving again, crossing the living room towards the jacket that he threw on the back of a chair, and his own body follows obediently, lifts up from the couch, steps after her.

He's not going to let her run so easily.

She's already shrugging her jacket on, so he looks around for her bag; he finds and grabs it, holds it out for her.

Kate looks at it, chewing on her lip; her eyes reluctantly lift to meet his as her fingers close on the handle.

"Thanks, Castle," she murmurs, pushing her hair back with her free hand. Her face is all closed up now, all the fragility gone, locked under key. He's not getting anything more out of her tonight.

That doesn't mean he won't try, though.

Her eyes keep darting away from his; he cups her cheek, forces her to look. Her lashes flutter in surprise, so dark against her pale skin, but she doesn't move away, doesn't do anything against it.

He wants to kiss her again.

"I have to go, Castle," she says, but her voice is lacking its usual confidence. It doesn't tremble, no, but it has this throaty quality that he wants to blame on arousal.

He knows *his* body is thrumming with it.

"Why did you kiss me tonight?" he asks, figuring that bluntness might knock her off balance enough to actually get him an answer.

She gives him a startled look; he doesn't know if it's due to his audacity or if she just thinks the answer's obvious. It's not, not to him, and he wants to hear her version.

She presses her lips together, looks away. "I shouldn't have."

But she doesn't mean it; that's why she can't look at him in the eye, that's why her voice breaks a little on the last word. And this is no answer.

"Why, Kate?"

Give me this, he asks, begs wordlessly. If you won't give me anything else, at least give me this.

She swallows, twitches nervously, then meets his eyes.

"Because it was all I could think about today, Castle," she admits in a low voice, as if it could soften her meaning too. It can't; he's breathless, his blood so loud in his temples that he can barely hear her. "When I was on the phone with him, when I walked into that bank –" she closes her eyes, and for a second her beautiful face is a mask of pain, twisting his heart "– all I could think about was that I'd never get to do this again."

And just like a dream, she leans in, brushes her lips to his, so soft, weightless.

Her eyelids drift shut, but it's not pleasure on her face. It's shame.

"It doesn't make it okay," she concludes in a murmur.

Then she twirls around and disappears, and he stares after her, rooted to the spot, his mouth tingling but his brain hopelessly numb.

* * *

><p>"Castle?"<p>

The sound slowly permeates his consciousness; he blinks, feels a hand on his shoulder. Uh. Kate?

"I think you should sleep in your own bed, rather than the couch."

Her voice is soft, an element of laughter to it, and he makes a considerable effort to shake himself, open his eyes, focus on her.

His memories tangle with the present, and for a vertiginous second he cannot tell if the bank was today, if he dreamed that kiss, or if-

He tries to get up, his brain too muddled for him to realize that Kate is asking him not to, and the second his right foot touches the floor, a flash of white-hot pain sends him back into the couch, hissing.

Right. Fuck. Sprained ankle. He remembers now.

"You need to take the painkillers, Castle," Kate's voice says from somewhere above him, muffled by his throbbing leg. "Here, have some water."

He feels something fresh and cool press against his hand, finds the presence of mind to uncurl his fingers, accept the glass. A feather-like caress at his temple, fingers threading through his hair; he opens his eyes again, is confronted with the tender concern on her face.

Her face. So close.

For a brief second, shock overrules the agony of his ankle.

She has the pills in her hand, and she pushes them gently into his gaping mouth. Her hand lingers on his lips for a beautiful, too-short second.

"Come on, Castle. Drink the water and swallow."

He does, because he can't think of a way to refuse her, even if he would like to stay like this forever, Kate Beckett bent over him, all soft eyes and tender mouth, locks of dark hair spilled over her shoulders. He wants to reach out, touch, worship.

"Good," she says, and he regretfully watches her move away, take the glass back to the kitchen.

He looks around him, more awake now, locates the crutches that he rested against the coffee table. He leans towards them, but Kate is at his side again before he can do much more.

"I'll get those," she says, stooping to grab the crutches, and involuntarily offering him a rather lovely view of her ass. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from grinning.

She rights herself and he tries his best to look serious. Kate arches an eyebrow at him, but doesn't ask any questions, thank god.

"Let's get you to your room."

He takes the crutches from her, but it's obvious that he's never going to get up from the couch without Beckett's help. He hates feeling like this, weak, in need of support. He doesn't even have a lewd comment to make when Kate settles at his side and suggests he put an arm around her shoulders; he doesn't even _enjoy_ it.

And the moment he's standing upright, he lets go, puts some distance between their bodies. Something like hurt flashes in her eyes, but it's gone in a heartbeat, and he can't-

He has to think of himself right now. Kate-

She's too much to handle. Or his feelings for her are. One and the same. The pain is not helping; it diminishes his self-control, his ability to cope.

He needs to be alone, needs to crash on his bed and let his ankle heal, and then she can leave and he can go back to pretending that he's fine.

That every inch of his body doesn't constantly ache for her.

"I can get to my own bed just fine," he says, hoping his voice isn't as raw as he feels.

"You sure?"

She sounds so disbelieving that he is almost offended.

"Look."

He hops through the living-room, teeth clenched in concentration, sweat trickling down his temples. He only sways once, quickly catches himself, and when he gets to his study's door, he looks back at Kate.

She nods slowly, lower lip pulled between her teeth.

"Okay," she says, and her voice sounds small and a little hesitant, not very Beckett-like. "Goodnight, then?"

"Night," he answers hastily, and he steps into his study, ruthlessly shoving down the desire to go to her, hold her, put a smile back on her face.

Sleep. Sleep is what he needs.

Not Kate Beckett.

* * *

><p>She's getting ready for bed in the upstairs bathroom when she hears a crash through the open door, followed by some heavy cursing.<p>

Keeping a tight lid on the panic that threatens to burst through her chest, Kate rushes down the stairs, through the door to Castle's study.

"Castle?"

She waits for a second at his door, then walks in, taking the muffled grunt of pain she can make out as agreement.

Her partner is slumped into his bathroom's doorframe, dressed for bed in shorts and a tshirt; his hands are clenched around one of his clutches, knuckles white.

Kate's eyes hunt for the second crutch, find it on the floor, close to her. It must have escaped him, rolled away.

She squats down and picks it up, goes to him.

"Castle?" she asks softly, putting a hand on his shoulder. Her throat closes up when she sees the tiny beads of sweat on his temple. Shit, he's in pain.

But he shrugs her off, eyes squeezed shut, his lips that unbecoming, thin line that she's not familiar with.

"I'm fine," he growls. "Stupid crutch jumped out of my hand."

That doesn't explain why he's hurting. Kate looks at him, pictures the scene.

"And you put your foot down trying to retrieve it," she understands suddenly, seeing the way he's standing, with his knee drawn up as if to keep his foot from the floor.

"Yeah, yeah, silly me," Castle ironizes through clenched teeth.

She doesn't understand why he sounds so…angry.

Unable to help itself, her hand finds a way of its own into his hair, burrows in it. Kate tilts her head at him.

"Castle."

When he doesn't open his eyes, she tries in a gentler voice, "Rick."

His lids fly open in surprise; he considers her, and she stares back. She won't be intimidated.

"This happens," she says slowly, looking into his eyes. "And will probably happen again. You're used to being valid, to putting weight on that foot." She shrugs, finishes, "It's hard to break habits."

He sighs and she can almost, physically, feel the tension leaving his body.

"Kate," he murmurs, resting his head against the wall.

She doesn't know what this is about, but it's too late – she's too tired – to push tonight.

"Are you ready for bed?" she asks, only now realizing how tight his t-shirt fits around his broad shoulders, only now seeing the shadow of stubble at his jaw.

He laughs, the sound bitter, scraping her heart. And then he sighs again. "Yeah. Yes. I'm ready."

"Okay," she says, moving to stand on his injured side. "Let's get you there, then. I'll put the crutches next to your bed for tomorrow."

He leans on her, hops to the bed; Kate's heart is in her throat and she tries to focus on something, anything that isn't the way his arm hugs her shoulders, the random brush of his ribs against the side of her left breast.

Damn. She doesn't need this right now.

"Do you – do you need anything?" she asks, too nervous, too raw, once he's settled in bed. "Water? More pills?"

His blue eyes glitter as he stares into her, hard diamonds rich with secrets.

"I'm good, thanks."

She nods numbly, unable to think.

"Okay," she says at last. "Goodnight, Castle."

"Night, Kate," he murmurs back, and it's all she can do not to bolt out of the room, run away from the appealing ruffle of opportunities, a kiss brushed to his cheek, or her mouth fused with his –

But she walks away, calm and steady, and no one could tell by looking at her that the ghosts of these kisses that haven't been are a dead weight inside her chest.


	2. Chapter 2

Castle wakes in a riot of sunlight, the walls of his bedroom splashed with bright color.

He hastily shuts his eyes again, rolls onto his side to hide from the aggressive sun. His ankle protests and he grunts, but the pain is dull, quiet - more manageable than last night.

Not comfortable exactly, but still. Better.

He stays in bed for a few moments, eyes closed, enjoying the warmth, his body cradled by the firm mattress, the percale sheets. Being a bestselling author does come with a few perks.

Not even money can buy sleep, though, and his body is too decidedly awake for him to win this round.

It has nothing to do with the knowledge that Kate Beckett is somewhere in his loft.

Nothing at all.

Rick sighs and gets to a sitting position; his sore muscles make the task more difficult than he'd like. His eyes fall on the painkillers and the water that Kate left at his bedside last night, and he reaches out, tries to remember what she said about the appropriate dose.

Two if the pain is not too bad. Yeah, that was it. He toys with the idea of taking only one, in case the stuff makes him drowsy, but it was okay yesterday - and he can almost hear Kate's voice in his ear, telling him not to risk it.

So he swallows down the two tablets, empties half the water bottle to appease his dry throat before he gathers his courage and gingerly slides his legs out of bed.

Uh. It's not that bad, really.

He remains seated for a while, braced on the edge of the bed, letting the blood return to his leg, his lips pressed together against the sting; and when he thinks he's ready, he grabs the crutches and gets to his feet. Foot. Whatever.

He takes an experimental step, another. Ha. He's doing *great*. He needs to show Beckett; clearly, she has no reason to be worried.

He hops eagerly to the door, then remembers to check what he looks like and makes a sharp turn, heading back to the bathroom. In his haste, he sets one of the crutches wrong and it skids on the hardwood, nearly lands him on the floor.

But he catches himself in time, heart thudding in his chest while he laughs breathlessly, runs a hand down his face. Alright. He gets it. No need to hurry.

When he hobbles out of his study about ten minutes later, wondering if Kate will have chosen to sleep in the guest room, he's immediately presented with the answer to his question.

She's huddled on his couch, the comforter that she must have taken from Martha's room wrapped around her like a cocoon; he can only see a quarter of her face, and a few runaway strands that merge with the dark leather of the couch's arm.

The sight arrests him for a moment - she looks so young, so unlike the kick-ass detective that he knows her to be - and then he moves closer as silently as he can, cursing his ankle with each step.

He wants nothing more than to squat down next to her, wake her with a brush of his fingers to her cheek, and even that simple pleasure he is denied. He lowers his eyes to the coffee table, tries to decide if he could sit there without the glass breaking.

A loud vibration makes him jump; he looks around, realizes that it's Kate's phone. She's silenced it, but put it down next to the couch; the hardwood floor reverberates the tremor, turns it into a clearly audible sound.

Kate groans, and with her eyes still closed, pulls out an arm from under the covers and fishes for the cause of the disturbance.

Her other hand comes up too, rubs at the visible side of her face as she puts the phone to her ear.

"Beckett."

Amazing, how awake she sounds, when she looks like she could go back to sleep any minute.

"Hmm, fine," she answers after a few seconds, stifling a yawn. "Text me the address, Ryan, will ya? I'll be there in twenty. Thanks."

She lets go of the phone and her eyelids slide open, her eyes meeting Castle's without betraying the slightest surprise.

She knew he was here.

How long has she been awake?

And then she shuts her eyes again and rolls onto her back, letting out a deep sigh.

Wow. Kate Beckett doesn't want to go to work. He watches, fascinated; snow in August wouldn't present a greater interest to him.

"Since you're up, Castle," she rasps after a moment, her voice still lower than usual, sending a pleasant shiver down his spine, "make coffee?"

"Sure."

He smiles, entirely too amused because this is the closest she's ever come to say _please_, and operates a turn on the crutches, heading to the kitchen.

"Oh, wait," she says, and when he looks over his shoulder she's thrown back the covers and moved to a sitting position. She's wearing a tank top and pajama bottoms, and he tries, very hard, not to stare at the strap that has slid down her shoulder.

"Your ankle," she frowns, and it takes him a few seconds to catch up.

"Oh." He looks down stupidly at his foot, then waves it at her (equally stupid, because it hurts, and then he has to hold back a wince). "It's fine. Look. Fine, Kate. And I took the pills you left for me, so see? All good. Nothing to worry about."

She gives him a suspicious look, but another yawn ruins her efforts; he uses that time to get to the kitchen and start the coffee-maker.

"Can I use your shower?" she asks, rubbing a hand over her right eye.

So cute. He doesn't think he's ever associated the word _cute_ to her; that's probably why he fails to come up with an appropriately lewd answer to her question.

"Course," he says.

And then she disappears into his study and he realizes with a belated pang that this means Kate Beckett naked in his bathroom, rivulets of hot water sliding down the length of her lithe body, dark hair even darker when wet, ebony against the pale delicacy of her skin.

He looks down at his ankle in frustration.

"You and I need to talk," he declares very seriously.

* * *

><p>She's feeling a lot more human when she emerges from Castle's shower.<p>

The bathroom smells like him, of course, smells like him all over; his soap in the shower, his Cologne on the shelf over the sink, and this pure Castle fragrance that she gets a whiff of when she dries her face in the towel hanging from the rack.

It makes her chest tighten, her throat swell; she takes a deep breath and lets go of the fabric, tells herself that it's just the early hour.

She's always more sensitive in the morning.

Yesterday, when Castle was asleep, she went back to her apartment and gathered a couple things - things she's going to need if she stays here for the next few days, clothes, make-up, toiletries.

She did it quickly, so of course she's missing stuff (socks, she always forgets socks) but she still manages to find a pair of jeans and a pink shirt that will look good with it.

Ah, no hairdryer. Alexis probably has one, but that means going upstairs, looking for it. Not to mention that there's no way she's letting Castle walk up the stairs, and he will probably insist on helping her find it if she asks.

Eh. Her hair can dry on its own. She runs the towel though it once more, absorbing as much humidity as she can, then does her make up - just a touch of concealer, mascara and some eyeliner - before heading back to the living-room.

She finds him sitting at the table, a cup of coffee and a plate of pancakes in front of him; she's equally pleased to see that he's rested his ankle on a cushion, and annoyed that he went through the trouble of making them breakfast.

She doesn't have time to eat; she told Ryan twenty minutes, and it's been fifteen already.

Thank god, the address isn't too far from Castle's place. And her car is parked close.

The coffee waiting for her on the opposite side of the table smells too tempting for her not to give in, however, and she blows gently on the dark liquid, watching the entrancing swirls at the surface.

"It won't make any difference if you sit down, you know," he points out with a hint of a smile. His eyes look very blue this morning, but maybe it's just the sunlight pouring through the windows. He looks good. No pain; something eases in her chest.

"Come on, Kate. Eat a pancake."

She carefully drinks a sip of coffee, ignoring him. He prepared a traveling mug for her, which means he knows she should be on her way already; and yet he made pancakes, as if he's trying to hold her here anyway.

Sweet, puzzling man.

Against her best instincts, she sinks into the opposite chair, grabs a pancake.

The grin that lights up his face is worth it.

* * *

><p>She only sits down for the two minutes it takes her to gulp down the pancake and some more of the coffee, but Castle appreciates the effort nonetheless. He didn't think she was going to heed him at all, to be honest.<p>

He reaches for the crutches when she jumps back to her feet, follows her to the door.

"I could come with you," he says, trying his best not to sound childish, and failing dramatically.

She lifts her eyebrows at him. "Or not," he mutters resignedly.

He's not really looking forward to spending the day all alone in the loft (it has an aftertaste of this summer, bitter and hurt, that he could do without) but he can't see another way, not if Kate won't let him inside the precinct.

She has a job to do. He will never argue against that.

So while she shrugs on her coat, he moves to the chest of drawers near the door, rummages among the heap of useless stuff that he keeps - old pens, keys to cars he no longer has, non-matching cuff links.

There they are. His mother's keys.

"Here, take these," he says, turning back to his partner. The mandarin collar of her coat makes her neck look even longer; the urge to kiss it dances inside him.

Kate gives him a suspicious look, eyes the keyring like it's a poisoned apple. She doesn't move to take it.

"Why would I need this, Castle? You're supposed to stay here."

He shrugs, jiggles the keys. "I might take a nap, or might be writing when you come back. This way I don't have to move. Thought this was your big goal?"

He can't, for the life of him, understand the reluctance he sees in her eyes. It's not like he's asking her to move in.

"Kate," he insists.

She ends up snatching the keys from his hand, avoiding his eyes, and stuffs them in her pocket.

"You're welcome," he says with a charming smile and an ironic quirk of his eyebrow.

She sinks her teeth into her lower lip, sighs, looks back at him.

"What are you gonna do today?"

His mouth opens in surprise. She should be on her way, not-

Not asking questions about his day. Like a wife would. Oh. That's why the key thing made her so uncomfortable. Too domestic; not likely to do either of them any good.

He swallows, makes himself answer. "Write, maybe. Or read. Or well, I could always watch Game of Thrones again. It'll only be the third time."

Her mouth curves into a smile; his insides flip.

"I'll never understand your fascination with this show," she says amusedly, shaking her head.

"That's because you haven't tried it. I promise, if you do, you'll get hooked as fast as I did."

"Uh-huh," she says, looking as unconvinced as possible. She looks at her watch, wavers. He's still not sure why she's not gone already. "Call me if you need anything, Castle," she tells him with a strange look, hesitant and confident at once. "Okay? If you're hurting, if anything's wrong-"

"If I'm bored?"

She glares at him in the true Beckett fashion.

"I'll call, Kate. Promise. But I'll be fine."

She gives him one last look, leans in to brush a kiss to his cheek, and then she's gone, the door closing on his face before he can even realize.

He stares at the red-painted steel without seeing it, fingertips lingering over the place her lips touched.

What the hell just happened?

* * *

><p>The day at the precinct is grueling.<p>

It's not just Castle's absence. It's the case, that seemed an easy one this morning, before their suspects started alibi-ing out one after the other; it's the young woman who bursts into loud tears when Kate gently informs her that her brother has been killed; it's Gates, who is in a snarly mood all day, and bites off the head of anyone who has the guts - or the madness - to speak to her.

You'd think she'd be happy, with the writer gone for a while, her source of constant irritation removed from her sight. But no.

Kate has the feeling that Gates is rarely happy with anything. At all.

The detective sighs, drops her face into her hands, massaging her forehead with her fingertips. She wants a quick close; she wants to go home to Castle, make it in time for dinner.

Is it too much to ask? Just this once?

"Yo, boss." She looks up at Esposito's familiar voice, pushes her hair back with her hand.

"Esposito. Please, please tell me you have something good."

"I just might," he answers, dark eyes studying her as he leans against her desk. "You okay?" he asks suddenly, instead of handing over the file in his hand.

Kate bites her lower lip, holds back another sigh. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just - tired. I wish-"

She stops herself before she can say something stupid. Something true. She's already done too much of that today.

But Esposito smirks, apparently picking up meaning enough in her unfinished sentence.

"Somebody's itching to get back to a certain writer, uh?"

She's told him and Ryan about the current situation, was surprised at how little teasing she got. She should know better than look a gift horse in the mouth.

"Sure, Esposito. I'm dying to get back to Castle's loft, shed all my clothes and then have hot, dirty sex against his front door. Who cares about a sprained ankle, you know?"

At least he has the good taste of looking somewhat ashamed.

"What you got?" she asks, taking pity on him.

She doesn't need to ask twice.

"Okay, so I was going through McClure's calls again, right? And watch this - here, and here."

"Same number, yeah," Kate answers, eyebrows knitting. "But I thought Ryan had checked this already?"

"Nah, we only checked the recurrent numbers, the ones that appeared over three times. We didn't pay attention to this one - only two distant calls. But-"

He waits for a beat, adding a little effect; Kate rolls her eyes. "What about this one?"

"Belongs to one of our lovely suspects. Jerry Goodwin."

"Goodwin." God, she's so slow today. She closes her eyes briefly, summons her memories. Right. Goodwin. The guy they talked to this morning, the neighbor, the one who swore he barely knew their vic. Uh.

"He had our vic's phone number?"

"Looks like he did. And called him pretty recently too, when he told us they hadn't spoken in months."

"His alibi-?"

"Can be torn down," Esposito shoots back confidently.

A slow grin finds its way onto Kate's lips; she stands up, grabs her jacket.

"Then let's tear it down."

* * *

><p>By six, they have a confession. Jerry Goodwin collapses like a house of cards when they confront him with evidence that he was with the victim at the time of his death; he almost starts crying, whines about not meaning any harm, how it was an accident, and then Ted stepped back and tripped-<p>

Kate sits back into her chair, her usual flare of triumph in her belly quieter this time, subdued, smothered by the relief that washes over her.

Castle has been texting her at regular intervals, assuring her that he's fine, asking about the case, telling her what he's doing (writing, making himself lunch, napping, watching Downton Abbey) - but she still wants to see for herself, doesn't quite trust him with his own health.

When they step outside Interrogation 2, Esposito grins at her, obviously satisfied with himself, and holds his palm up for a high-five. Kate gives in with a small smile after checking that Gates isn't around to lash out at them.

They walk back to their desks, meet Ryan there; she's eyeing her computer reluctantly, not exactly eager to deal with the paperwork, when the boys turn to her.

"Get out of here, Beckett," Ryan tells her. "We got this."

She arches an eyebrow at them. They look...determined. She itches to take what she's offered, just say _yes, okay, thanks,_ and be off - but it wouldn't be fair.

"Guys. We solved this case together; there's no reason I shouldn't be-"

"Beckett. Seriously." Esposito is giving her his stern, serious face; she's not used to it, has to bite her lip against the smile that threatens. "If not for us, do it for Castle. Go put the poor guy out of his misery."

Huh. He has a point. The writer is probably bored out of his mind, having spent his whole day alone.

She tries not to let herself think about him having spent a whole _summer_ alone.

It was different. He had Alexis and Martha, he had the precinct. For a while, anyway. He wasn't alone. He wasn't.

"Okay," she surrenders. "Thanks, guys. I owe you one."

"You owe us nothing," Ryan shoots back with a pointed look. She smiles, the real thing this time, as warm as she feels inside.

"Thanks," she says again, and she grabs her jacket, her bag, doesn't look back on her way out. She knows she would turn around if she did.

She's in the lobby when she glances at her phone, sees the reminder flashing at her.

Oh, _shit._ Shit.

Kate stops, closes her eyes, furious with herself.

She has an appointment with Dr. Burke tonight. It's been scheduled for a while, which explains why she's forgotten about it, but still. Damn it.

It's in half an hour, so she could make it, but it means driving there and back, means it's that much time spent away from Castle, when this whole day without him is already making her edgy. Raw.

But cancelling with Burke, last minute like this? Ug, she doesn't want to do it either. It's not just a politeness thing - it's...a matter of consistency. Part of the reason she goes to the psychologist is Castle, is her determination to be better, to be more. For him.

Until she can say it back.

So cancelling the appointment to spend time with Castle? It's thinking short-term instead of long-term. It's being stupid. She chews on her bottom lip, so very annoyed with this.

Shit.

She uncurls her fingers from her phone, hits speed dial two. And sighs.

* * *

><p>He frowns when he sees Kate's picture flash on his iPhone.<p>

He knows from Ryan that the guys managed to shoe her out of the precinct, which he is inordinately grateful for; he kind of expected her to come straight to his loft.

Yeah. A little naive of him, probably.

"Castle," he answers, bracing himself.

"Hey, it's me." She sounds tired. No, more than that. Weary. It makes his heart hurt, makes him wish he were there with her.

"I hear you wrapped up the case?"

She laughs, a reluctant, tiny sound. "Sometimes I wonder if Ryan texts you more than he texts Jenny, Castle."

He huffs in the phone, pretends to be hurt. "Beckett, you don't understand the depth, the complexity of the relationship between a man and his-"

"-brothers," she interjects with that eye-roll tone, "yeah, I've heard that somewhere."

He grins, and he thinks, from the friendly silence that stretches between them, that she might be doing the same.

"So."

He doesn't want to push; he won't push. But he does want her to come over. Badly.

He hears her sigh; instead of sinking, his heart soars. It's not a, _how am I going to get rid of Castle _sigh; it has reluctance in it, reluctance and hesitation, things that he's not used to in her. That has to be a good sign.

"Castle," she says, pauses. The sound of her breath over the phone is suddenly too much, too intimate; he has to get up from the couch, move to break the spell that she's laying over him. "I was going to come over," she goes on after a moment, "but I just remembered - I'm supposed to have a session with Dr. Burke tonight."

Burke. Her psychologist. He knows little about the man; the only reason she's even told him that much is that he kept worrying over her - harassed her, really, after the sniper case - and she ended up telling him that she was already seeing someone.

"Okay," he says, not sure where the problem is. "When is it?"

"In about twenty-five minutes," she sighs. "I had kind of. Forgotten about it."

Oh.

"Is that enough time for you to get there?" he inquires, trying to sound detached, not like he's prying into her life and trying to determine where her psychologist's office is.

"Yeah. Yeah, it should be."

"So, what's wrong? You don't want to go?"

"It's not - it's not that," she answers, and he can see her perfectly, worrying her lip, dark eyes heavy with doubt. "I was planning on having dinner with you."

Her soft admission makes his heart flip; warmth fizzes in his veins. He knows she doesn't mean it quite like this, but still, still - it gets to him.

"I can wait, Kate," he tells her with a smile. He's done a lot of waiting lately; what's a little more? "I'll have dinner ready for when you come back."

"I'm supposed to take care of you," she murmurs, sounding defeated. "Not the other way around."

He hates that her voice is so small, disheartened.

"How about we take care of each other?" he suggests lightly, hoping he can keep the words from meaning too much.

She lets out a small chuckle; it's still weak and somewhat hesitant, but he'll take it.

"Sounds good," she says. If he's not mistaken, she's a little breathless.

"I should be at your place around eight," she adds, and he can tell she's moving, getting into a cab. "Is that okay?"

"Sure. But Kate, there's no rush. I'll be here anyway; you know I'm not going anywhere. Take as much time as you need, okay?"

Oh, subtle, Castle. So very subtle.

Subtle or not, it works, though, because when she speaks again, there's a smile in her voice. "Okay, Castle. I'll see you in a bit."

She hangs up, and he stares at his phone, revelling in the sound of that.

She's coming. She'll be here.

Soon.

* * *

><p>She gets out of Burke's office later than she expected.<p>

It's not the first time – ever since the sniper case, the psychologist has been intent on showing her that giving her mom's case a rest is *not* letting her mother down, is not anything but the sign of a healthy determination to live her life and enjoy it, something that Johanna Beckett herself would probably agree with.

Kate is still reluctant, isn't completely convinced, but every time she leaves him she does feel like he's gained ground on her, like she has had to retreat a little farther.

It's come to the point when Burke's words are a sea surrounding the tiny island that she stubbornly remains on, even though the land is shaky, giving way under her feet; one day, whether it's tomorrow or in a week, the island is going to sink, and she'll have to swim.

She's acutely aware of this, her guts churning with a mixture of fear and excitement, as she turns the key Castle gave her into the door of the loft.

A delicious smell envelops her; she doesn't take the full measure of it until she's hung her coat, turned to the kitchen.

"Castle!"

The damned man is standing – not even sitting, _standing_ – at the kitchen island, absorbed in what must be the preparation of their dinner; he glances at her when he hears his name, guilt flashing across his face.

Unbelievable.

Kate strides through the living room, shakes her head at him when he tries to move away from her, pleading, "I'm almost done, Kate, almost –"

She snatches the spoon he's holding, not even giving a look to whatever he's making, and points to the couch.

"Castle, I know you have trouble following orders, so I'm going to make this very simple. You. Couch. Now."

He opens his mouth to object; she raises her eyebrows, challenging him to. He wavers for a couple seconds, a mutinous look in his eyes, before he surrenders, grabs his crutches and starts making his way towards the couch.

She's watching with a distinct sense of relief when he stops, turns back to her.

"You know, as much as I like this – very sexy – authority thing you've got going – I think I'm old enough to make my own decisions. And I really don't think that standing up for fifteen minutes is going impair my ability to walk forever."

"Oh," she says. "And remind me again, when did you become a doctor?"

He huffs in disbelief. "Oh, come _on_, Kate. I'm not the one who checked out AMA so I could run to my father's cabin. I'm not the one who hid away there for a whole summer, wallowing in misery and steadfastly refusing to see my friends. *You* are allowed to do without anyone's help, but I'm supposed to listen to you and follow orders to the letter? How fair is that?"

Ah. There they are. Kate sighs and runs a hand through her hair, trying to see past the valid points he's making, past the hurt that lingers in his voice when he mentions last summer.

She's not any good at asking for help – wouldn't even know where to start – but when she sees the grief that still burns at the back of his eyes, she wishes things were different.

"It's not about fair, Castle," she points out at last. "It's about you getting better."

"And you have such a keen interest in my health," he says with raised eyebrows, clearly intent on being a jerk tonight.

Well, she's not letting that one go.

"Really, Rick? You think I'm not interested in seeing you get better? You think I'm not interested in having you back at the precinct? I –"

She stops herself just in time. _I hate it when you're not there_ still hangs somewhere, between her lungs and her tongue.

Castle seems to have been roused from his childish funk.

"You what?" he pushes, blue eyes full of that intense curiosity that she usually loves.

Just. Not right now.

"You what, Kate?" he asks, gentler this time.

"I miss you, when you're not there," she admits in a low voice, settling for something in between. She won't look at him, she won't.

There's a beat of silence, when she feels the weight of his eyes on her, and then he speaks again.

"You mean, you miss my coffee and my incredibly inventive theories about alien invasions and CIA involvement?"

Her chest is too full, her throat choked; it's hard to breathe past it. She meets his gaze then, hoping that he can see everything, that he can see past the wall.

"Well, you know. Mostly the coffee," she answers, unable to keep the grin off her face.

He smiles back, and she has this stupid thought that she doesn't think she's ever had about any other man: _he's beautiful._

Without saying anything else, he turns, hops to the couch and settles there; Kate feels a ridiculous wave of gratitude drowning her heart.

"Thank you," she says.

"Don't thank me. You're gonna have to finish that tiramisu for me, if I'm grounded here," he points out. He's trying to sound grudging, but there's a laughing undercurrent to his voice that undoes it all.

Kate cuts disbelieving eyes to him as she dumps her purse, takes off her shoes; but when she steps into the kitchen's open space, there's no denying it.

He was making tiramisu. And it's only half done.

"Oh. Okay," she says, looking around for a recipe, a guide, something. None that she can see. Did he hide it somewhere? "Will you, hum. Tell me what to do?"

"Sure."

She lifts her eyes to him, suspicious, because he sounds entirely too happy with this. But he has this smiling, honest look on his face, a look that's not unlike the one he has when he talks to, or about, Alexis, and her heart quivers stupidly.

She looks back to the sponge fingers, the pot of coffee, the pale yellow preparation in the bowl. Right.

"I was just about to start the layer of biscuit, I think," he says. "So, you have to soak the sponge fingers with coffee, but you don't want them crumbling to pieces either, ok? So you just put them in the coffee for a second or two, take them out, put them in the dish. Just...arrange them the best you can."

"Okay," she says, teeth worrying the inside of her cheek, desperately trying to quell the feelings evoked by his warm voice, by this very simple act, cooking together. She doesn't remember the last time she had a real person to tell her the recipe, not a book, not some chef on TV.

It's been entirely too long.

Castle guides her with his voice, soothing sounds that vibrate through her skin, leave her deeply relaxed, a cocoon of peace and comfort woven around her. He alternates instructions with anecdotes of former culinary disasters, making her laugh (and secretly wonder how the hell Alexis has survived all these years); the tiramisu is done before she even realizes it.

She's a little...disappointed.

"Okay," Castle says. "Now put some plastic wrap on it, and put it on the top shelf of the fridge. There should be room enough."

She obeys without thinking, and then it hits her when she's closing the door of the fridge.

"Why am I putting wrap on it if we're going to eat it tonight?"

Castle smiles his _I'm so clever _smile; he's lucky that she's not close enough to pinch his ear.

"Because, my dear Beckett, we're not eating it tonight."

"What?" Why did she go to all that trouble, then?

"See, the tiramisu is a sophisticated, subtle dessert; you have to wait for it, prepare yourself-"

"Castle."

"I'm serious! You have to let the biscuit soak in all the coffee. It's like a hundred times better if you eat it the day after."

Kate presses her lips together, decides that she believes him. He gives her a strange look, hesitates a second too long before he adds. "Some things are worth waiting for."

She knows he's not talking about food.

* * *

><p>After dinner she curls up on the couch next to him, knees pressed to her chest, silent and thoughtful. He's rather proud of the quantity of lasagna he saw her ingest, mainly because it's an unspoken compliment to his cooking, but also because he still has this ridiculous fear that if he's not here to remind her, she'll forget to eat.<p>

He knows it's not true - not entirely - but he also knows from Ryan and Esposito that she goes for the easy option when he's not in the precinct. Crappy food.

And while she's a grown woman, can take care of herself (and would dismember him if he even suggested something about her unhealthy diet), he's silly enough - in love enough - to want to feed her, give her the best, lovingly nursed meals, just to see her eyes sparkle when she comes home.

To him.

Yeah. Right.

"You know," she says with a little smile, startling him with the beautiful look in her dark eyes, "when I first dragged you in Interrogation 1, I'd never have guessed you were quite the cook."

He hums, his own fond memories of their first encounter surfacing in his mind. "You didn't think much of me, did you?"

"To be honest, Castle," she shoots back smoothly, "you didn't exactly make a good first impression."

He laughs. "Really? You weren't dazzled by my rap sheet? Come on, Beckett. How many suspects have you come across who stole a horse from the police, and rode it naked?"

"You sure that's something to take pride in?"

"You can say what you want," he huffs, "but even at the time part of you found it funny."

"Part of me, uh? Must have been a very tiny one."

"You had that little smiling tone to your voice, when you said. _And you were - _nude -_ at the time."_

She lifts wide eyes at him, horror and laughter struggling in those dark depths. "Oh, god, Castle, you're not serious. Please don't tell me you remember every word of that conversation. That's-"

"-endearing?" he offers with a hopeful smile.

"_Freaky_," she answers with a roll of her eyes.

He shrugs. "Not *every* word, just-"

The things that caught his attention. The things that made his stomach quiver with that lovely sensation of unexpected, kind of like when you're a kid, digging a hole in the garden, and you stumble onto a treasure that you never thought was there.

The things that lit the first, timid sparks of love inside him. He can hardly tell her that, can he?

"Uh-huh," Kate says, looking like she wants to believe him but can't quite manage it.

Okay. Time to change the subject. "Anyway. Yeah, I like to cook," he declares abruptly, making her raise an eyebrow in amusement. "I don't care if you call me metrosexual again," he challenges. "I think it's relaxing. And I guess I like the fact that it doesn't require much thinking. Leaves my brain free to brew the next scene of whatever I'm working on, and then when I sit down in front of my laptop, it's all there, just waiting to flow out."

The irony has vanished off her face sometime during his little speech; it's all interest now, beautiful, dark, sparkling attention.

He's finding it a little hard to breathe.

"Is that how you work?" she asks curiously. "Write a scene in your mind, and then type it on the laptop?"

Oh damn. He tends to forget how much she likes his books. Well, not 'forget' exactly, but... It seems crazy. That this smart, fierce, kind woman sort of - what? Fell in love with his books? He still doesn't know the whole truth of it, but what he knows is humbling, startling enough. So he - forgets that it's real, sometimes.

"Not...always," he says, hoping she doesn't hear his struggle to get the words past the tight knot of his throat. "Sometimes I'll just get an idea, sit down and write in a frenzy, until my fingers are all cramped and I have to take a break. And sometimes it's a slower, more - painstaking process. Especially when I have a deadline, know I have this particular scene to write, and the words for it just... won't come."

Kate winces, her face all loveliness, part light, part shadows. "That sounds like me when I'm staring at the murder board, willing it to speak to me."

He lets out a surprised laugh, struck by the accuracy of her comment. "Yeah. Yeah, that's...kind of it."

God, she looks-

Fascinated. By him.

Okay, not him exactly. His novels. His creative process. Eh. That's kinda him.

She seems to realize suddenly that she's been, well, staring; she leans back into the couch, looks away, her bottom lip curled between her teeth, something like a blush on her cheeks.

Adorable.

And quick to recover. "You talk to Alexis today?" she asks, her eyes still not on him.

Smart woman. She knows he loves to talk about his daughter, uh? "I did," he answers, and there's no point in trying to wipe the stupid grin off his face. "Had to assure her a couple times that I was really doing fine, but after that she told me all about California. Sounds like she's having fun. Meredith is between roles, so she has more time than usual. Alexis hasn't yet threatened to kill her, which is a remarkable fact, believe me."

Kate laughs, a small, reluctant sound; she looks back at him. "Good," she says softly.

He's struck all over again by how lucky he is to have her in his life, this incredible woman who cares for his daughter like no one else has; who pays such close attention. It would make no sense to him if he didn't know her, didn't know how personal she makes it, every case she works on, every victim, every family.

He's thrilled that Alexis has her. Because she does, doesn't she? Even though he and Kate aren't together (_yet_, his optimistic self wants to add), even though Beckett spends little time at his loft - if something were to happen to him, Kate would be here for Alexis.

He knows that. And it's such a warm, golden, wonderful comfort.

"Thank you," he says, his voice too deep - too much meaning. He tries again. "I mean. Thanks for talking Alexis out of coming back here. She needs this. The time with her mom."

Kate smiles, a little wistful. "I'm glad."

She's amazing. God, she's amazing. He needs to tell her - kiss her - make her see-

"Did you ice your ankle today, Castle?" she asks suddenly, her eyes on his foot.

He stares, uncomprehending, the great wave of his feelings pushing at his chest for release, almost irresistible, the words a breath away from his lips. His ankle...?

"I'll take that as a no," she smirks, moving to get up. No - what is she-

"You need to learn to take care of yourself, Castle," she throws at him over her shoulder. "Shouldn't be so difficult, for someone who's got such a big ego as yours."

She opens the fridge, gets the ice, and crap, _crap_, the moment is gone. Just like that. Gone.

He's so disappointed he could cry.

* * *

><p>Kate unwraps the gauze with slow, careful gestures, knowing even the slightest brush can hurt like a bitch. She sprained her wrist once; she remembers.<p>

The bruised, swollen skin makes her press her lips tighter together, the hematoma a hideous melange of blue, green, and purple.

"Did you change the bandage today?" she asks, struck by how withered it looks.

He gives her a surprised look, shakes his head, and she sighs.

"Castle. You have to change it. Let your skin breathe."

He doesn't seem to like her tone, and asks rebelliously, "How am I supposed to know that?"

"What, you're telling me you never had a sprain in your life? And Alexis either?"

"Well. No, actually. Alexis broke her wrist once, and that was painful enough. And I broke my leg in a ski accident. So I know a lot about casts. But not sprains. Or bandages."

"Oh." Really? "And you never researched it for a book?"

He always makes it sound like he's researched everything. Mobsters, spies, serial killers. Why not sprains?

"No," he answers, more patiently this time. "I had a lot of characters getting shot, dying a variety of terrible deaths. Sprains are, you know. A little too tame when you're writing crime."

She's smiling, can't help it. "Not good enough for you."

He considers her. "I suppose it's a way to see it."

"Okay, Castle," she says, shaking her head a little. "I'm sorry. I should have told you everything the doctor said. It was stupid of me to think you'd remember; you were drugged. And singing _The Sound of Music._"

"I was?" He doesn't look too upset about it. "Which song? _My Favorite Things_?"

She grins. "_Sixteen Going On Seventeen._"

He huffs a sound halfway between a laugh and a moan; it could be surprise because she just pressed the ice to his skin, but she doesn't think so. It sounded like a mixture of shame and amusement.

When he hisses, though, she knows it's for his ankle.

"Ow ow ow. Kate. It's cold."

"It's supposed to be. Hold still."

"But it's so very, very cold," he complains, that little boy whine to his voice.

"Don't be a baby," she says, but she still eases the ice off his leg a little.

He's sitting on the couch; she's on the opposite armchair, his foot firmly secured in the cradle of her knees. Easier this way. His ankle throbs and pulses, hot against her skin, even through her jeans.

"Does it hurt?"

"It's okay," he answers, but he doesn't look too valiant.

She suddenly realized that she hasn't seen him take anything since she came in. "When was the last time you took painkillers, Castle?"

He avoids her gaze steadily.

"Rick."

"Sometime this afternoon," he answers grudgingly. "They make me sleepy. And honestly, Kate, it doesn't hurt so much. I don't think I even need the pain pills."

Stubborn man. She moves the ice a little, giving him a look.

"Ouch! Ow - Kate - that hurts," he mumbles resentfully. "You're mean."

"If it hurts, maybe you should take painkillers."

"Did I say mean? I meant evil. Calculating and wicked."

"You're starting to sound like a broken record," she shoots back, lifting an eyebrow.

They fall silent as she ices the skin all around his ankle, every inch that the bruise spread to; it's quite a lot of tissue, and the bag of vegetables she's taken from Castle's freezer is small. After a while, her fingers start tingling from the cold. She lets go, looks at the sprain, utterly unable to tell if her efforts have had any effect.

"I think it's fine," he says softly. "At least, I don't feel anything."

"I'm not letting you go to bed without taking drugs, Castle."

"And I'm not letting you sleep on the couch tonight, Kate."

She looks up at him, thrown off balance by the unexpected comment. He's leaning towards her, too close; his thumb brushes her cheekbone, the caress echoed by the deep thunder of her heart.

"You look exhausted," he observes gently.

She does feel tired. She's not sure if it was the long day without Castle, the efforts she had to put into ignoring Gates, the frustration of having the suspects alibi out one after the other - but she's beat.

"Now, I know my couch is pretty comfortable, but there are two perfectly empty beds awaiting you upstairs. And you're always welcome to share mine, of course."

Oh really?

"Not...like that," he adds hastily when he sees the look on her face. "Just. I mean."

Damn, she can't hold it. Her face breaks into a little grin, and he narrows his eyes at her.

"Oh, I see. Glad you're having fun, Beckett."

She hums, carefully removing his foot from her lap, gently deposing it on the table. "I'll be right back. Just going to get some new gauze."

She has the strangest fondness for clean gauze. She likes the smell, the coarse feel of it in her hand, the way it falls into place and doesn't move from it. Neat and proper. Unlike life.

Or love.

She makes a quick work of re-wrapping Castle's ankle, and she helps him up afterwards.

"I'm serious, Kate," he says as he leans on her. "No couch."

"Not going to sleep on the couch," she replies tiredly. "I only did it last night because I wanted to be close. In case you needed something."

She feels him still at her admission, wonders if that was too much information. If it was, he hides it well.

"Taking care of me, uh? Why, Detective Beckett, that's-"

"If you say sweet, I swear, I'm going to hurt you," she warns.

His chest quivers with silent laughter.

"I shall settle for generous, then. Very generous of you."

Ug. Is she blushing? She can't be, right? She risks a sideways glance to him, finds his laughing blue eyes regarding her.

Damn you, Castle.

"Shut up," she groans.

"Yes, sir," he laughs, soft sounds that ripple through her chest.

"Ugh. And don't call me sir. I feel like I'm Gates or something."

"Yes, Kate."

Even after all this time, her stomach still flutters when he says her name.

* * *

><p>She's fiercely refused his help in the kitchen again, so he heads for his bedroom, carefully setting the crutches against his bed before he hops to the bathroom.<p>

He's not taking a shower tonight; it was enough of an ordeal this morning, having to keep his foot up, and away from the water. So he quickly changes to his pajamas, brushes his teeth, washes his face.

It's amazing how tired he is, considering how very little he's done today.

And it's only eleven. Wow.

Getting old, Castle.

Kate's voice saves him from more depressing considerations. "Need anything, Castle?"

He turns off the water, wipes his hands on the towel before he turns to her, standing in the frame of his bedroom door, all slim legs and dark hair.

His fingers itch to touch her, wander through those long locks, map all this gorgeous skin.

Yeah. Having her close doesn't help. But he wouldn't change it for the world.

"Yes," he says, turning the bathroom lights off, stepping forward. _You_ is the natural continuation to his answer, but he won't say it.

Her brow knits, something like concern in her eyes. "What?" she asks, coming closer.

"Company," he says lightly, turning an innocent smile to her as he sits down on his bed, patting at the spot next to him.

He settles down against the pillows, watches her roll her eyes and huff. But there's the curl of a smile on her lips, and it pleases him deeply.

"Please?"

She does move, but only to stand at his bedside; she's not even touching his bed. He remembers the previous day, the surprise and delight of opening his eyes and finding her there, a book in her lap. Book.

Oh, he knows what to say.

"Tell me a story?" he begs, trying to put as much childishness in his blue eyes as he can, to infuse them with sincere pleading.

It must work somewhat; she wavers, looking at him with an eyebrow arched, teeth working at her bottom lip.

"A story," she says, her voice neutral, neither a question nor an answer.

Oh, he's so winning her over.

"Alexis tells me stories when I'm sick," he explains eagerly. "She started doing it when she was - I don't know, six, seven? I was in bed with bronchitis, couching my lungs out and generally feeling miserable, and although Mother was supposed to take care of Alexis - keep her away from me - my little girl didn't want to leave me alone."

He knows, _knows_ his chest is swelling with pride, and that he must look ridiculous, but he doesn't even care.

"So she came in here, curled into my chest, and told me a story. To make me feel better."

When he looks up at Kate, she's smiling, a soft glow about her that touches, illuminates everything, all of her, eyes, mouth, hands, collarbone.

So beautiful; he's breathless.

"Is that what *you* do?" she asks quietly. "When she's sick? Camp at her bedside and tell her stories?"

He nods, silent, the ability to speak lost to him.

"You're a good dad," she sighs, sinking to the bed next to him, her fingers brushing over his.

He nods again, stupidly.

She arranges the pillows and lies down, nestles into his covers, then looks up at him. Dark, wide eyes, a vulnerability in them - something of a little girl. Oh. Oh, Kate.

He feels ridiculously close to tears again, has to swallow heavily, breathe past it.

"So how does it work? Is it just any story?"

Her voice is so soft, low and beautiful, hypnotizing.

"A princess story," he breathes, surprised he can speak at all.

She huffs a laugh. "Of course."

He can't help himself; he reaches out, snags her fingers, holds them to his chest.

She watches him, hesitant, worries the corner of her mouth. "Castle, I'm not-"

"I'll help," he says, because he cannot have her leave now, cannot take it. Cannot watch her go. "We can tell a sentence each. It's easy, you'll see."

The tremulous smile that slides onto her lips, the look of excitement sparkling on her face; it's too much, too much. Not enough.

"Once upon a time," she whispers.

He closes his eyes, lets her voice do it. Rewrite the world for him.

* * *

><p>The princess is a fierce one; she defeats every attempt at taming, refuses suitor after suitor only to fall in love with a young peasant guy who hides her in his house when she has to run from the castle, hide from the minister who rebelled against her father and threw her parents in jail<p>

Castle enjoys it even more than he expected. Kate challenges him (doesn't she always?); she adds twists and turns to the plot when he least expects it. He has to adapt, make it fit, conform his imagination to the path she traces, while inventing detours and meanders of his own. It's exciting, thrilling in a different sort of way than Nikki Heat, because he has to work within a frame; it reminds him of his younger days, of the assignments they gave him in Literature classes.

He loves it.

He couldn't tell how long it goes on for, but Kate's voice grows more sleepy, a little sluggish, answering the dark, lovely exhaustion that tugs at his heart. He won't fade out on her, though - won't be the first to give in.

"She went into the castle," Kate murmurs, not very articulate. "And the first thing she did was rush to the dungeon, to free her parents. But she found that her mother - her mother had not survived the long imprisonment, and her father had gone mad with grief. He hardly knew who she was."

Castle's heart trembles with desolation when he realizes how much that sounds like her own story. She must not hear it; she's too close to slumber, eyelids shut, mouth parted on a glimpse of teeth. But he does; he hears it, and it all rises up inside him, his need for her, his need to help her, to make everything better.

Like he can.

"Her peasant boy found her there, in the dungeon," he murmurs, weighing his words. "She looked so distraught - he reached out for her hand, held it to his heart." As he tells the story, Castle acts it too; his fingers find Kate's, squeeze gently. "He knew he couldn't fix things for her. But he still wanted to try. So he looked at her, looked into her beautiful eyes, and he leaned in and kissed her lips."

His mouth touches Kate's, gentle, barely there.

"And then he said, _Marry me."_

He holds his breath, both exhilarated and terrified, but he gets no reaction from his storytelling partner.

"Kate?"

When the only answer she gives is a long, slow exhale, he realizes that she's fallen asleep. Instead of being disappointed, though, he feels a sense of bright, unbridled joy, like saying those words, kissing those lips, is a sort of premonition, a promise, a guarantee that this will happen.

For real.

It might take a while; she might not be in his bed when he wakes up tomorrow, but that's okay. She's here now, warm and soft, pliant against him.

He can work with that.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **So I was going to write a chapter for each day they spend together (hence the ridiculous length of the previous ones) but stuff happened, Castle and Beckett refused to do as they were told, and as a result I now have to rewrite some parts of this chapter. Since I cannot - alas - spend my whole life writing fanfiction, I've chosen to break this chapter up in two parts, so you at least get some of it today. Thanks for the reviews and the love - you're amazing.

* * *

><p>She wakes in the dead of night, eyelids fluttering as awareness comes crawling back, shivers running across her chest, her arms, her legs.<p>

Dark. And it's cold.

She tries to curl up into a tighter ball, finds that it doesn't help.

Opening a reluctant eye, she realizes slowly that she's lying on top of the covers, instead of being under them.

Stupid, Beckett. She rolls onto her other side, tucks the corner of the sheets out from under her body, and wraps them around herself.

Mmm. Yeah. Better.

She scissors her legs until she's comfortable, the fabric unbelievably soft and welcoming around her skin-

This isn't her bed.

Her eyes jerk open and this time she's awake, completely, helplessly awake.

There's a moonbeam sneaking its way through the curtains, bathing the room with tentative black and white and making it look like a 1950s movie; it's just enough light for Kate to identify her surroundings with a twitch of relief, and relax again.

Castle's bedroom.

Right.

She remembers his ankle and the story, understands that she must have fallen asleep before the end. She's surprised that he didn't try to cover her up, make sure she'd be warm; it sounds like a Castle thing to do.

Maybe he just didn't want to wake her.

Maybe he didn't want to wake her because he thought if he did, then she'd leave his bed.

She worries her lip between her teeth, her eyes on his large, unmoving form. He's sleeping on his side too, with his back to her, but she can still feel the warmth that radiates off him, snug, soothing waves that call to her.

Was he right? Would she have run, if he had woken her when making her more comfortable?

Maybe.

Probably. Damn it.

Well, she's not running now. He's expecting her to, isn't he? So she won't.

Ha. Take that, Castle.

Kate scoots closer in the large bed, her body, her senses opening up to him, the way he smells, the way he breathes, the gentle heat that he gives off like an offhanded invitation.

He's wearing a shirt, but it's an old, worn one, she thinks, because when she presses her forehead to his shoulder blade, it's almost like she can feel his skin through the smooth cotton.

She stills, and curls there, against him, nose brushing his scapula as she breathes him in.

Mm. So good.

There'll be time to run tomorrow.

* * *

><p>He always has the hardest time telling dream from reality when he wakes, so he's neither alarmed nor very surprised to feel a warm presence at his back, the softest of touch along his spine, the murmur of a breath, quiet and regular, in time with his.<p>

He lets his body rouse slowly, savoring every little spark of consciousness, the light that presses against his closed eyelids, echoing the weight that tickles at his vertebrae. Hm. Still there.

He waits a little longer, waits until the whole length of him is awake, his brain almost clear of sleep, ready to start the day.

He can still feel her against him.

Castle opens a circumspect eye, tries to tame his hope, not let it run away from him like a wild beast. He turns his neck slowly, limiting his movement in an attempt not to wake her. It's enough, anyway, tells him all he needs to know; that no, he's not dreaming, and yes, the warm and sleep-slack body huddled against his is that of Detective Kate Beckett, whose dark hair is currently forming an lovely mess around her face.

Of course, all he wants to do now is roll onto his other side, weave his fingers through the curls, longingly gaze at her.

Ever so slowly, he attempts the maneuver, numb muscles protesting against the careful shift, ankle and leg and back alike. In the warmth of his bed, though, nothing really hurts.

Despite all his precaution, Kate stirs, makes a small, unconscious noise at the back of her throat. He holds his breath while she huffs and sighs, his heart in knots with how very adorable she looks; after a handful of seconds and a little moving around, she rubs her nose and curls back onto her side, tighter if possible.

It looks like she's not waking up after all.

Or so he thinks until he sees her eyelashes sweep against her cheeks, once, twice, green eyes opening slowly in front of him.

And although he would have liked more time with Sleepy Kate, would have liked the chance to bask in her presence, to fill his eyes with the beauty of her, he cannot help but think-

It's just amazing to be the person she opens her eyes to.

* * *

><p>She watches him with sleep-blurred eyes; it takes a moment for it to sink in.<p>

Richard Castle. In her bed.

Wait, no. His bed. His bed?

Ah, yes.

She fell asleep here. Meant to sneak off this morning.

Looks like it isn't happening.

She blames it on the bed, this ridiculously, sinfully comfortable bed that neither too hot nor too cold, neither too firm nor too soft. Trust Castle to trap a woman in his bedroom by any means necessary.

"Hi," he says, interrupting her mental rant. His voice is a little too low, subdued; she peers at him, suppresses a yawn.

Hm. He looks...sappy. He has this dreamy, over-emotional glimmer in his eyes, one she has seen before, mostly when he spoke about Alexis's leaving. So this is what finding her in his bed does to him, uh?

She wants to smirk.

In fact, she probably does, if the narrowing of his eyes is any indication.

"What?" he asks, and this time it's gruff and manly, makes her body react in ways she hadn't anticipated. She tries to control her shiver, hopes that he won't see.

"Nothing," she says, left somewhat breathless with the quick, eager rise of it; the want, the need for him that's been crawling up her insides for years now.

His mouth is close. Too close.

"Why were you smiling then?"

She looks up at his eyes, focuses on the warm blue, not his lips, not his lips. He's trying to look insulted, but there's amusement in the background too, light and joyful.

"No reason," she breathes, instinctively knowing she's not doing the right thing. She should be attacking, should be teasing him, throwing him off his game-

But she can't find the words for it, can't seem to turn this stammering, lovestruck version of herself back into Kate Beckett, the hard-ass cop.

Castle's mouth curls up into a half-smile.

She needs to get out of here.

Get out.

Now.

"How about I make us some breakfast?" she asks, looking away and started to push herself up. "Maybe this time you'll get to eat it."

The kitchen, the kitchen is safe. The kitchen is far away from this man and his bed, from the welcoming smell that greets her senses every time he leans towards her.

A hand on her wrist stops her.

Castle sits up next to her, their heights ostensibly the same; she can't help but notice the sleep-rumpled look of his hair, the sparkle in his blue eyes. The width of his shoulders.

_Don't look._

But then he's leaning in and brushing a kiss to her cheek, so close, so close to the corner of her mouth, his fingertips at her chin, a barely-there touch that orients her face just right; her heart pounds in her chest as she strains not to move, not to make this worse.

Not to jump him, a frenzy of lips, teeth and tongue-

He lets her go.

"Breakfast sounds great."

It takes all the willpower that she has to move away from his bed.

* * *

><p>He showers before joining her, a deliberate move on his part to give her some space, some time to regroup.<p>

He needs it too.

Needs to take a step back, keep his brain from jumping to hasty, eager conclusions. Yes, she spent the night in his bed, but he should _not_ make it into more than it is, should not invent layers of meaning to paste onto it.

She was telling him a story, trying to comfort him; she fell asleep in his bed.

That's all.

All there is to it.

But then, then, she was still here this morning, in his bed, nestled at his back-

_Stop. _Stop it, Richard Castle.

She's here for him. She's here because she knows him well enough to call his daughter and convince her to stay in California instead of rushing back to his side, and he should be grateful - he _is_ grateful - he shouldn't be thinking of ways to seduce Kate Beckett back into his bed.

But his brain, the treacherous thing, presents him once more with the vision of her this morning, disheveled, pink-cheeked, beautiful, her lips parted and her throat trembling when he pressed that kiss to her skin.

And he can't help but wonder.

What does *she* want?

* * *

><p>He pauses in the middle of his living room, struck once again by the sight of her in his kitchen, all fluidity and grace as she moves from the fridge to the stove, from the stove to the table.<p>

The feeling of deja vu isn't even that strong, because her hair is much longer than it was last time she made him breakfast, and she looks so much more comfortable in his house - and (probably best of all) his mother isn't here to ruin everything with her little looks and comments.

"It's almost ready, Castle," Kate says without turning to him. "Have a seat."

Okay, he sort of loves it when she invites him to sit in his own kitchen.

"Can I help you with anything?" He's not sure if she'll scold him for asking, but he really can't help himself.

Kate turns to him, lips parted, an impatient look on her face; but whatever she meant to say never makes it out. Instead, her whole face softens when she meets his eyes, and there's -

There's a beautiful openness in her eyes, the kind he's seen more and more lately, when she looks at him like she's got nothing to hide.

Nothing to hide from him.

His heart hitches and she says, so gentle, "No, Rick. Just sit down, and I'll be there in a minute."

Kate.

He makes his way to the table, lowers the crutches to the floor, moves his chair a little closer, all in silence.

He has no use for words when she looks at him like that.

* * *

><p>She watches him eat with a sense of fulfillment and joy that surprises her.<p>

She's never felt this way before. She's never been big on cooking either, although on occasions, she enjoys a good homemade meal like everyone else.

When she was with Will, he would often joke that in the six months they'd been dating, he'd never seen her cooking once - she did it to keep the mystery up, he said, preserve the image of the tough, sexy cop he'd met.

It was nothing like that, of course - more to do with the fact that she was running herself ragged so she would make detective - but it *had* become deliberate on her part after a while, because he kept bringing it up, and she just wouldn't give in.

Castle's never challenged her ability to cook (Castle's never challenged her ability at anything really); that might be why she is so very okay with making him food.

So very pleased to see him eat it.

Yeah. It's a little ridiculous.

When he finishes his last bite, the smile he directs at her is adorned with a tiny crumb at the corner of his mouth; she will not, will _not _reach for it.

"You have a little-" she points at her own mouth, showing him the place.

His lips break into a slow grin; he reaches for it with his tongue, very slowly, licks at the spot with a provocative glimmer in his eyes.

She should look away.

"Better?" he asks, and there's a darkness to his laugh, a roughness to his voice that makes her stomach stir in response.

She nods quickly, not quite trusting herself to speak, and gets up, starts gathering the plates.

Once the dishwasher is full and she's chided herself for reacting like an adolescent girl, she returns to the living-room to find him in a pensive mood. He has both elbows on the table, his chin resting on top of his hands; he turns his eyes to her when she approaches, an invitation she can't refuse.

She sits down again, on a different chair this time. Closer.

"Can I tell you a story?" he says.

Kate pauses, surprised. "You don't generally ask permission," she points out with a half-smile.

He gives a small laugh, but she can see his mind is already elsewhere, expertly playing with words and sentences, if she knows him at all.

"When I was with Gina..." he starts, then stops to think. "Well, no. When I broke my leg. Skiing, as I told you - I was with Gina at the time. We were already married, in fact. She didn't come to Vermont with me, she had other - better - things to do, but when they brought me back to New York, she was here. Alexis wasn't; she was at camp with some friends. I couldn't move, really, for the first three weeks, although I had a physical therapist and the best equipment money could buy."

Kate watches him intently, making note of every inflection, every twitch of his mouth, of his eyebrows.

This isn't a good story for him. No good memories attached. She can tell.

"So, yeah. I was stuck here, and Gina worked a good deal from home at the time, so we were stuck here. Together."

He falls silent, clearly struggling with ghosts that she can't see.

"I take it that didn't go well?" she asks softly after a moment, nudging him. She's not sure why he's telling her this, but she finds herself interested now. She wants to know the end of the story.

"Gina, um, quickly saw how to use it to her best advantage. I was still writing Derrick at the time, and I was late with my manuscript, as usual. So she thought that - she could make me write. When I asked her for something, anything, she'd tell me, _Write me a chapter and it's yours, Rick._"

Kate stares at him disbelievingly, indignation rising in her chest, heating up her cheeks.

"You're kidding me."

Something dangerous in her voice must alert him; his eyes lose that unfocused look, meet hers with something like surprise. Surprise? Seriously, Castle?

How did he think she would react?

"No," he says somewhat defensively, shrugging. "But. It wasn't - it wasn't so bad, really-"

"_It wasn't so bad_?" Oh God, she wishes she were more controlled, wishes she could rein it in. But she can't. "Castle. That was blackmail. She was *blackmailing* you."

He opens his mouth, brow knitting, and shifts awkwardly. "It wasn't exactly...I don't think she meant-"

Kate stares at him disbelievingly.

"Gina was always like that," he hastens to add. "Controlling. And kind of - she was quick to see how she could make the best out of a bad situation. I'm sure she thought she was doing what was best for both of us. And really..."

Oh, wow. He looks so...okay with it. She hates that. *Hates* it.

"Really _what_, Castle?"

She probably should try to soften, take the sting out of her voice, but man. It's so *not* okay.

"I..." he hesitates. "May have deserved it? I mean, I wasn't exactly the best of husbands, and our marriage was never..." his voice trails off before he starts again. "It didn't feel so bad at the time. It was how we worked. She commanded and I evaded and, yeah. I don't think it was really ever...a healthy kind of love."

He gives her a half-hearted smile, a shrug. She feels so incredibly sad; it smothers her anger, tones it down.

But it's so very important that he understands.

"Castle. Even if she did - in her own way - love you, it was not okay for her to blackmail you into writing. Especially not if you were in pain and needed her help."

He smiles again, more honest this time; it ripples up to his eyes. "Yeah. I sort of realize that now. It's been strange - to have you here, helping, not asking for anything in return."

Oh god. Oh, Castle.

Damn it, he's going to make her cry.

"But really, Kate, I wasn't so unhappy at the time. Yeah, when Alexis came home, I joked about being glad to see her because Gina was using the leg excuse to order me around, and my daughter got upset-"

"Of course she would," Kate murmurs, shaking her head although the picture of a furious Alexis brings a small smile onto her lips.

"I couldn't really see it, though. Not - until now."

She swallows hard and tries to pretend she doesn't understand his meaning, doesn't hear what he's saying. That the reason he knows now that Gina never loved him the way she should have is because...She never took care of him like Kate does?

There are other layers of meaning embedded in that statement, and Beckett is fairly certain she's not ready to face them.

Her mind, desperate for a way out, catches something else he said.

"Wait, Alexis. Alexis saw Gina do her blackmail thing? And yet she - she agreed to let me take care of you while she was in California?"

Castle grins, all the clouds gone, his whole face alight with happiness.

"I guess she trusts you, uh?"

Kate stares at him, unable to wrap her mind around it. Really? Alexis Castle has this much trust in her?

"I thought-"

After the summer, after the bank... She thought she wasn't Alexis's favorite person right now.

"This is why you were so surprised when I said I talked Alexis into staying with Meredith," she understands at last, lifting her eyes to Castle's for confirmation.

He nods, his smile not dimming. "Yeah. Well, not surprised exactly - pleased, I guess."

"Your daughter trusts me," Kate states slowly. No matter how she looks at it, it still seems...insane.

"Are you really that surprised?" he asks, an eyebrow raised. "I've always said Alexis looked up to you."

Yes, but-

"Alexis doesn't have...a lot of reasons to like me right now, Castle." Does he not see this? She's the one who keeps walking the girl's father right into danger, the one who's put him through a whole summer of misery, the one who can't make said father come before Kate's dead mother.

"I disagree," he says quietly, conviction burning firm and bright in his eyes.

She gives him a questioning look.

"Kate. I'm the person Alexis is most unhappy with. She doesn't like that I risk my life on a daily basis; she doesn't like my devotion to - the work we do. And maybe she's been mad at you, but I think by now she's understood that... I'm the one to blame, not you. And I'm an adult. I'm responsible for my own choices. Whether she likes them or not."

She nods slowly, recognizing the truth in his words, although she can't wholeheartedly agree. If something were to happen to Castle while they're working on a case... Beckett knows she would never forgive herself.

"Hey, Kate." She lifts her eyes to him, attempts to hide the misery that comes with the thought of losing him. "My choice, remember? I can stop whenever I want. Gates would love it if I never came into her precinct again," he adds with a chuckle. He grows serious again, blue eyes solemn as he adds, "If it was safety I wanted, I could turn my back on this. On working with you. But you *know* that some things are worth fighting for, worth putting yourself at risk. You taught me that, Kate. And I'll never, ever regret it."

"But I might," she whispers, the words leaving her lips without her consent.

"No, you won't." He squeezes her fingers; she looks down in surprise, not expecting to find her hand in his. "You've made me into a better man, Kate. You should never regret that."

She bites her lip, wants to argue with that, say she liked it better when he was a little more shallow maybe, shallow and safe. But it would be a lie, wouldn't it?

She wouldn't have loved the shallow man like she loves him now.

Was he ever really shallow?

"Okay," she sighs, because despite everything she sees his point, and the logical, reasonable part of her even accepts it.

"Good."

His eyes. His eyes are such a tender, warm, sparkling blue. So much love.

The words tremble in her chest, timid and hesitant, when he looks at her like that.

He doesn't give her a chance to say them; she doesn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

"Now. No calls from the precinct?"

She has some difficulty gathering herself, getting everything under control again; she shakes her head rather than risking an out loud answer.

"Good," Castle says again, grinning this time, with challenge lighting up his eyes. "Because I've been waiting to beat you at Monopoly like, _forever._"

He looks so much like a little kid; she has to grin back, let out the dark, provocative laugh that comes to her lips.

"Like you could ever beat me, Castle."

"You're on."

* * *

><p>"No - Castle,<em> no<em>-"

Kate's hand closes on his wrist just as he grabs a handful of plastic houses; their skins slap together and he yelps, fingers coming loose at once, the blue houses scattering on the floor.

"Hey, I paid for these houses!" he complains, glaring at her as much as he dares. (He doesn't dare a lot).

She arches her eyebrows at him, doesn't release his hand. It freaking *hurts*; she doesn't know how strong she is.

It's a little hot, too. Damn.

"You paid for half of them," she points out, a threatening glint in her eyes. "A thief. That's what you are, Castle. A thief and a cheater."

"I'm not." He knows he sounds like a four-year-old, sulking and stumping his foot, but he doesn't care.

*She* is the cheater. There's just no way - _no way_ - that she's winning the game now, when he had twice as many properties as she did only forty-five minutes ago. He didn't agree to sell them - she *tricked* him - and she can't even pronounce half the names on these cards, anyway.

Okay, that's a mean thought to have. But it does make him feel a little better.

This version of the Monopoly is the European one; he bought it in France with Alexis, a couple years back. It's actually called _Europe Monopoly, _and it's all fancy, with a shiny board in deep blue and violet tones, words in golden letters, and even fake euro coins (Alexis used to love those).

And instead of buying streets, you buy capital cities. When Kate saw that, she threw him an arch look and said, "Probably fits your ego better, uh, Castle?"

He grinned at her then, toyed for a minute with the idea of telling her that he has nothing to compensate for.

But he's not smiling now. She's got all the ones he likes, the pale blues - Sofia, Bucarest and Varsovie - and then the orange ones, Stockholm and Vienne and Lisbonne, and he's left staring resentfully at the cards in his hands, eyeing Rome and Bruxelles like they've personally offended him.

So expensive to buy houses for them - he's never going to win this way.

"Your turn, Castle," Kate says, handing him the dice. She's landed on the London Heathrow Airport; one of hers, of course. Of course.

He rolls the dice, moves his token (a miniature of the Eiffel Tower), groans when he realizes where his ten brings him.

Londres. And she's built two houses on it, too. Seriously. Where does all that money come from?

"That's 180,000 euros, Castle," she says, her voice entirely too sweet for the amused look in her eye.

He mournfully looks down at his ever-decreasing pile of notes.

He doesn't want to pay.

When he looks back at her, Kate must catch some of his rebellious feelings on his face, because she arches an eyebrow at him.

"Don't be a sore loser," she says. "Come on, Castle. Give me the money. Don't make me come and get it."

He finds himself smiling despite himself. "You realize that last option sounds much more attractive than the first, right?"

She shakes her head at him, a laughing look in her eyes, her mouth opening in one of those beautiful smiles where he can see teeth, tongue, all that joy that radiates, tumbles from her unimpeded.

She holds out an open palm, and he gives her the money, enchanted, mesmerized.

Maybe he can deal with losing after all.

* * *

><p>After she's kicked his ass at Monopoly and made him lunch - mac and cheese, because he whined about needing comfort food - she makes them move back to his bedroom. The doctor said he should be lying down, and as far as she's concerned, Castle's already spent way too much time sitting or even standing.<p>

Once he's all settled, she lays the Scrabble board between them (a random choice, because looking at the ridiculous pile of his games made her head hurt), draws seven letters, and starts moving them around.

She quickly takes the lead, which she's honestly surprised at. He's the writer, right? He's supposed to be the one with all the words.

But his problem, she realizes after a couple turns, is that he makes the poetic choices instead of the strategical ones, chooses to play _lithe_ for a miserable number of points, when he could do something else with his 'h' using that triple word square that she sees flashing invitingly at her.

He's not even miffed at losing, which makes her think he's had this problem before.

Beautiful words versus point-scoring ones.

Interesting.

He loves winning so much. She wouldn't have bet that he loved words more.

When he overlooks an obvious placement for his "fierce," however, going for an uninteresting spot rather than a double word, she can't help herself.

"Castle, seriously. You can't tell me you haven't seen that 'e', next to the double word."

He looks up at her, surprised, then down at the board again. "Oh."

And without any further reaction, he moves his letters toward the spot she pointed out. 'Oh'? Really? She glares at him, and it takes him entirely too long to notice.

"What?" he finally asks, somewhat defensive.

"Why are you not playing?"

He throws her a look, half-confused, half-pissed off. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

"Putting together words that aren't making any points. You're not trying to win." And she can't understand why.

"So? You're not playing a game if you're not trying to win?"

She arches an eloquent eyebrow. He sighs. "Okay, fine. I hate Scrabble. There. No matter what I do, I lose. So I stopped trying, a long time ago."

She tries not to linger on this strange pessimism, so unlike him. "Well, why did you agree to play then?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. You seemed pretty keen. I didn't want to-"

Say no. Drive you away.

Is he really afraid of telling her no? Kate presses her lips together, tilts her head, looking at him.

"Castle."

He hums, avoids her eyes. Good. So at least he's aware of how unhealthy his unfinished sentence sounds.

"You can always say no. You know that, right?"

He rubs his hand against his chin, sighs before he finally meets her eyes with an apologetic grimace. "Ah. Yeah. But do I want to?"

The oxygen that fills her lungs is tainted, heavy with sadness; it weighs her down. Has she done this to him? Has she given him so little of herself that he feels he can't say no to whatever she might feel inclined to part with?

No. No. This is wrong. He's wrong.

"Of course you do," she answers more forcefully than she intended. "Do you think I want to spend my time wondering what's on your mind? Wondering whether a yes is really a yes?" He winces, and she goes on, her voice softer, "You should never be afraid of telling me what you think, Castle."

His blue eyes widen slightly and she contemplates her words, realizes what he heard. Oh. She meant-

Well. She'd be hypocritical if she let him tell her what game he wants to play, but not what he feels. Right?

He should be able to tell her what he feels. She wants no secrets between them.

He's still watching her, waiting on her, with a sort of guarded expectancy in his eyes, something painful and poignant.

He's waiting for her to take back her words, she realizes. He's expecting her to backpedal and pretend this conversation never happened; he's bracing himself for it.

Oh, Castle.

"No more secrets," she says firmly, lifting her chin and daring him, daring him to say the words.

_Say it, Castle._

But he stays silent. His face doesn't light up like she hoped it would; he doesn't seem relieved, doesn't seem happy. In fact, his eyes fill with an anguish that lacerates her heart, a panic that spreads to her lungs.

What-

What's going on?

She wants her secret out in the open, wants to have him know that she remembers. That she never forgot.

That she knows he loves her.

But why would that - unless he -

Her throat closes up, her insides twisting.

There's another secret.

There's another secret, and if the look on his face is any indication - she's probably not going to survive it.

* * *

><p>"Go to my study," he manages to make himself say, the words heavy and awkward in his mouth, sticking to his tongue, his teeth, like they don't want to get out.<p>

But they have to. This is his chance. No more secrets.

This is his chance to come clean, his chance to confess and maybe, maybe, to be forgiven.

She's right: he's been selfish. Been a coward. He told himself it was all for her, to protect her, to keep her safe, but in the end - it's all for him, isn't it? Because he needs her so desperately, needs everything she will give him and more, needs to keep this possibility alive.

The beautiful, shimmering hope of their love.

It's all for him.

And he's going to hurt her now, when his only desire, his only aspiration is to make her smile, see her eyes shine with laughter. To see that soft tenderness that sometimes paints her face when she regards him.

All his efforts ruined; she's looking at him in something like horror.

He has to force the words out of his mouth.

"Study, Kate. The remote control to the storyboard is on my desk. Turn it on."

"Why?" she asks sharply, not moving from his bed.

The Scrabble board is still sitting between them; it annoys him, chafes his sense of time and place. The playfulness, the lightheartedness evoked by the game seem almost obscene now.

"Castle. Tell me what I'm going to find."

Even her demanding detective voice can't wring the words out of him.

"Just...go, Kate," he rasps. "Turn it on."

"_Tell me what I'm going to find._"

He can't. Doesn't she understand? He simply can't.

She presses her lips together, shakes her head angrily, her eyes drifting towards the study for a split second.

He knows she will go. She might hide it better, but she's just as curious as he is.

"And, Kate."

She looks back at him, guarded and defiant, dark hair and fiery eyes. Beautiful.

"Just. It's up to you, okay? No - no pressure," he hesitates, licking his lip. "I'm not expecting anything. You don't have to-"

The air in his lungs betrays him.

"You don't have to stay," he finishes on a soft breath.

The determination on her face flickers as she watches him. "You're scaring me, Castle," she says, and most of the steel in her voice is gone. But her raw honesty is sharper, the edges more cutting, a greater danger to his heart.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

He's never meant the words like he does now.

* * *

><p>The remote control is where he said it would be.<p>

She doesn't let herself hesitate, presses the power button with a sure hand, even though her heart is beating out of her chest.

The board comes alight and although she's not sure what to expect, she knows she won't find the outline of the next Nikki Heat. Surprise still makes her take a step back when it's her own face that appears in front of her.

Oh.

Okay.

She sucks in another breath, presses enter.

The familiar - oh, so familiar - murder board unfolds in front of her, the same suspects, the same witnesses. The same dead people.

Except the focus is different. She, not her mother, is at the center of it all. And under her picture, the question that Castle must have been agonizing over all summer, if this is any indication. _Who hired the sniper?_

She can't breathe; her whole body is frozen, curled in an attempt to reject it all, shield her heart against it, the unpleasant truth, the ugly knowledge.

She feels sick.

Why-

Why is he doing this?

Why did he talk her out of it, why did he persuade her to stay safe, only - only to throw himself in the same danger he begged her to walk out of?

He's not a cop, damn it. But he told her to stop so he could do it alone? Without police resources, without even having a gun and backup? _Who's your backup, Castle?_

Little sparks of anger fly, valiantly try to light up the fight in her, but the weight of despair is too great, dark and overwhelming, a wave that swallows everything else and leaves her trembling in panic.

If they find out, they're going to-

She presses a hand to her mouth, takes a step back, shaking her head against the tears, against the way her vision blurs and tunnels in fear.

They're going to kill him.

No. No. Castle-

But he's been working on this, he has, and when they find out - because they will-

They're going to kill him.

And who, who will save him, if she's not there?

A shallow breath and she's at the cemetery again, the too-bright light making her slit her eyes, and like before, she hears Castle's voice, feels his strong body collide into her, winding her, landing her on her back. But this time her brain is clear, she's unscathed and it's not her blood - God it's not her blood - and Castle's blue eyes are wide, unseeing above her and the sobs catch in her throat, drown her, _Castle_, please, no-

She drops the remote, hates herself for her shaky hands, but at least, at least the board goes black and it makes it a little easier to breathe.

Damn it, Castle.

She presses her fingertips to her cheek, isn't surprised when they come back wet.

And then she hears his voice, hesitant, fearful.

"Kate?"

She closes her eyes, controls her breathing, slowly, in and out. She just needs a moment.

Just a minute. She can do this. She won't run.

She can't run.

Because somebody needs to tell him to stop.

* * *

><p>It's been too long.<p>

It's been too long since she went in there, too long since he last heard a sound coming from his study.

He thinks the last sound was the remote hitting the floor, too, and that doesn't exactly help either.

He's stuck there, on his bed, ankle carefully arranged by her, propped up on some cushions, and he feels-

Small. Powerless.

Terrified.

He leans his head back into the pillow, closes his eyes, holding his breath and straining to hear something, _anything_, that will tell him she's still here, tell him she hasn't run.

He hasn't heard the front door, so that - that has to be good, right?

Damn. He needs to move.

He sits up a little, grits his teeth against the pain. He looks around for the meds, but then remembers that he left them in the living-room after lunch; he hadn't expected Kate to insist on him going back to his bedroom and lying down.

He's surprised by the angry throb of his leg, the heated pound of blood. He felt so much better this morning, and the effects of the painkillers were just as inexistent then as they are now.

When he slides his ankle off the resting place that Kate made for it, he can't help a muffled cry, even though his mouth is firmly pressed shut and he braced himself for it.

There's sweat trickling down his neck.

Seriously?

He rubs a hand down his face, tries to be rational.

She's not like him. She needs time to work through things, time and silence and solitude; she doesn't need him hovering around, doesn't need to read the anxious fluttering of his heart in his eyes.

So he should stay where he is, right?

Even if it hurts, even if the wait kills him, even if the hope inside him dies a little more with every second that passes without her coming back in.

He lets his eyes slide shut again, goes back to a resting position, his right hand a fist at his side.

He's a grown man.

Grown men don't cry.


	4. Chapter 4

When she's calmed herself down, she kneels to pick up the remote, toys with it for a moment.

It's harder, once the panic has receded, not to give in to curiosity.

She wants to know.

She wants to know what he's found, wants to know if there is new information, if they have gotten any closer to solving her mother's case without her knowing.

And yet she hesitates. Wavers. Her finger hovers at the edge, never pressing the button.

She needs to sort out her priorities.

She could turn the board back on, yes, could study it for an hour, let her mind wrap around whatever connections he might have made, work from there. But that-

That's the easy way, isn't it?

It's what she's good at. Examining evidence, making connections, building theories. That's her job, and she excels at it. She's experienced, a trained detective. She's good.

But Castle.

She's not good at relationships. She's too independent, too guarded, too solitary. She deals alone, heals alone, and she doesn't call for three months, and she hurts people. Hurt him.

It's what this is, right? His storyboard turned into a murder board. It probably wouldn't have happened if he hadn't felt the need to maintain some sort of connection to her over the summer, to help in any way he could. Hang on to something.

Sorrow strangles her heart when she thinks of it, and yet there was no other way. She needed those three months alone.

And he needed her.

Irreconcilable hearts.

Slowly, Kate moves to the desk, puts the remote control back in place.

She will work at his heart now, will care for it, protect it, cajole it into mending. Repair the damage she's done.

The case-

The case can wait.

* * *

><p>She finds him sitting on the bed, his legs dangling over the side, breathing through his nose to ease the pain.<p>

He senses her presence a second before he actually sees her; his whole body slackens, relief pouring through his throat, his lungs, his heart. He sways with it, and then she's at his side, gentle hands on his shoulders, gentle voice at his ear.

He wants to cry again.

"Castle, what are you doing?"

_Coming after you_, he wants to say, but he can only shake his head, all the words choked in his mouth. She helps him back on the bed, and although she's very delicate with his ankle, a faint whimper escapes his lips.

He's not too sure what exactly aches, to be honest.

Kate's eyes linger on his face, study him. "You're in pain," she says, quiet and sad, and she starts to move away; he cannot help himself. He jerks forward, catches her hand, pulls back.

"No."

She stumbles, caught off-balance by his sudden move, and almost falls on him.

"Castle," she grunts, between a warning and a threat.

"Don't go."

His voice is pitiful, a child's plea, whispered and urgent. He doesn't care. She cuts surprised, shocked eyes to him; understanding sparks in those green depths as she considers him.

"I'm only going to get the pain meds, Castle," she says softly, soothingly.

No.

"Don't go," he begs, giving up his last shred of dignity, no pride left; there's only this disabling, devouring need for her, and it leaves him small and needy and desperate. A newborn.

Her lashes flutter against her cheeks; he wonders if maybe the tears are just as close for her.

Her next words come out as a murmur. "You're hurting. Rick. Let me go and grab the pills. I'll just be thirty seconds."

He shakes his head again, fierce, determined.

"Please. Please. Stay."

Her fingers tremble against his, caress his palm, hesitant. She presses her lips together, conflict on her face.

Her hand lets go of his, strays to his cheek. She cups his jaw, her thumb feather-light against his cheekbone, and she sighs.

"Scoot over," she says.

Heart thumping in disbelieving joy, he obeys eagerly, makes room for her; she slides in next to him and arranges the pillows so that she can lean against him more easily.

He curls an arm around her neck, tugs her to him, into him, as close as she will get. She rests the side of her face to his shoulder and sighs, and although he can't tell what it is - regret or relief or sorrow - he loves the way her body relaxes into him, molds itself to his.

"We need to talk," she breathes, and he smiles, has to hold back the exhilarated laugh that pushes at his lips.

She wants to talk. She's still here, in his loft, in his bedroom, in his life, and she wants to talk. Oh, Kate.

"Time for that later," he answers, his voice a little gruff, his throaty raspy with happiness.

Right now, he wants to soak it in, bask in it, the warm reality of her at his side, the soft tickle of her hair against his jaw. And no secrets.

No secrets between them.

* * *

><p>The next time she looks up at him, he's asleep.<p>

A smile plays on her lips, but it fades when she notices the tired lines of his face, the lack of color in his cheeks. And it's just a stupid sprain. Nothing compared to what it could have been. The damage a bullet could cause.

She knows.

She remembers in excruciating detail what the first weeks were like, not being able to move an inch without the pain shooting up, without the flames of agony licking at her ribs, at her heart, setting her nerves on fire.

Kate grits her teeth and tries to curb her imagination, keep it from picturing Castle collapsing next to her on the sidewalk, the gunshot echoing in her ears. Castle in a hospital bed, pale and unconscious, Alexis crying softly at his side-

Damn it. She's usually better at controlling her own mind. She doesn't let herself dwell on unpleasant stuff, especially not ridiculous visions of things that haven't happened, things that won't happen - if she has anything to say about it.

She lets out a long sigh. She wants to get it all out, *needs* to get it all out, talk to him, hear him say that he'll stop investigating without her. Stop investigating, period. But he's asleep, and he needs it, and she really can't wake him-

Her turn to wait.

She smiles again, and this time it lingers. She moves her hand from her lap to his, brushes her fingers against his palm.

Oh, she _will_ wait. It's the least this man deserves from her.

* * *

><p>He wakes up and his mind is a blur, his whole body on strike. His eyes won't open, his legs won't move. Castle groans and gives up, ready to let sleep win this round, when his ear catches the faint sound of a voice, a trace of irritation, something that stirs his interest. Eyes still closed, he listens, tries to keep slumber at bay for a moment more.<p>

He only gets a few words, can't, tell her, suspect, before the voice quiets, replaced by the soft padding of feet walking back into his bedroom.

The mattress dips and his mouth curls up. He just can't help it.

He swallows, licks his lips, tries not to slur. "Was that the precinct?"

He feels Kate's slight jerk of surprise. "I thought you were asleep," she says softly.

"I was. I am," he mumbles laughingly.

She lets out a silent chuckle and his heart purrs at the sound. "Yeah, it was. Gates wanted me to come take a case. I said no. Esposito and Ryan can do fine without me."

He gets the feeling he should protest, although he can't really remember why, because the meaning of her words is more or less lost on him.

"Kate."

She hushes him, and then there are fingers in his hair, long, gentle fingers massaging his scalp. Mmm. She's not playing fair.

"Sleep, Castle."

He sleeps.

* * *

><p>She's half tempted to sneak back into his study and turn the storyboard back on, look at it to see what he's found, what he's dug up. But no.<p>

No, Kate.

She distracts herself with Esposito and Ryan's case, but she knows very little about it - Rachel Simpson, 27, body found in the Hudson river by an angler - and no matter what, her thoughts keep going back to the man lying next to her.

She ends up curled on her side, facing him, studying the look of deep concentration on his face, the wrinkle it puts on his brow. He must be dreaming.

Her eyes follow the line of his nose, the curl of his mouth, the dimple in his chin. He's not *exactly* handsome, at least not in the traditional way, not like Jude Law or James Marsden, like the guys all the girls fawn over; and yet he's so very-

Attractive. Charming.

He _is_ handsome, in his own way.

She's not sure if it's the smile, the warm blue eyes, the general ease and good cheer that he brings along wherever he goes. Probably a combination of them. Mmm, and the shoulders. Those broad shoulders, the muscular arms-

But it was his words. His words that got her first.

Before she'd even met him.

Before she had any idea of the wonderful man behind the books, any idea of the kind of son, the kind of father, the kind of friend he is.

The kind of partner.

He shifts a little, lets out a small sighing sound.

"Staring, Beckett," he mutters indistinctly, an eyelid sliding open. "Creepy."

She laughs softly. "Now you know what it feels like."

She gets a flash of blue eye for that, an amused huff and a curl of his mouth. "Hm. Rather like it. Dunno what you're complaining about."

She hums, pushes his hair back from his forehead. He's adorable. He's adorable and-

Oh.

She loves him.

She's caught off-guard, her heart too tender and open, and the realization cuts through her like a knife through melting butter, doesn't meet any resistance.

She-

Damn.

She really loves him, doesn't she?

And now she's having to blink back stupid tears. Stupid, stupid tears.

"Castle," she breathes, unsure what the rest of that sentence is.

He makes a noise, low in his throat. "Still sleeping here."

That helps. It helps, not having to look at him, not having his eyes on her - she just has to swallow, breathe, move past it. This doesn't have anything to do with the discussion she wants to have; or well, it has, but-

The serious stuff should come first.

And he's slept long enough. Kate pushes on his chest, shaking him a little. "Come on, Castle. Enough sleeping."

He groans.

"Wake up. Or you won't sleep tonight. And you owe me a conversation, I believe."

"Said 'later'."

"It *is* later, Castle."

He heaves a deep sigh of dissatisfaction, opens his second eye. "You're not gonna leave me in peace, are you?"

She smirks. "No."

He rolls onto his back, rubs a hand to his eye. "Gimme a chance to wake up first?"

A lovely burst of playfulness overcomes her gravity for a second; she grins and leans in, hooks a finger through his belt loop. And then she brushes her thumb to the soft skin of his abdomen.

"Need a little...help?"

He freezes, looks down at her hand. Then up at her face. His eyes are wide and shocked, and it's so hard to keep the laughter in.

"Awake now," he says, his voice a little rough, rippling through her deliciously.

No, no.

She has to focus. Focus, Kate.

"Good," she says, regretfully sliding her fingers off him.

She wants no distraction from this conversation.

* * *

><p>He's not sure he likes her calm, her control. But it's probably easier this way.<p>

This is - this is meeting each other halfway, right? He's given her time, left her on her own (not really his choice, but he will overlook that) to absorb the first of the impact, let the information soak in. And in return, she isn't running, isn't hiding; she's willing to talk it out with him.

He feels a strange sense of-

Pride. Yes.

And in that moment, maybe for the first time, he completely understands what she meant at the swing set, about a wall, about not being able to have the kind of relationship that she wants.

But surely that doesn't apply now? Surely no secrets means...no wall?

"I'm guessing you started this in the summer," Kate says, green eyes regarding him, bringing him back to the moment.

"Yeah." Nothing more to be said, really. She knows. He can see it on her face.

She nods slowly, her bottom lip between her teeth.

"How - how often have you worked on it? Are you - working on it now?"

He cannot tell what that inflection is in her voice, what is the emotion that runs beneath the smooth surface.

But he doesn't even consider lying. "I've been working on it on and off. But yeah, I'm still - adding stuff," he admits, trying to read her.

Hasn't she studied it all? Hasn't she seen what he said about Smith, about the blackmail thing? Keeping her safe?

"Every time Smith asks to meet me," he says tentatively, prodding her for a reaction.

He's not disappointed; the incomprehension in her eyes, the sudden knitting of her brow tell him everything he wants to know. "Smith?" she inquires, at the exact same moment when he asks in surprise, "Didn't you read it?"

Kate presses her lips together, looks away in something like embarrassment, and then back into his eyes.

"No," she replies confidently. "I didn't."

He's stunned, can only stare at her, his mind blank, totally blown away by this. Her mother's case. It's new information on her mother's case. And she hasn't read it?

Impossible.

His obvious astonishment doesn't seem to make her any more comfortable, but she doesn't shy away this time. Instead she chooses her words, carefully.

"I didn't read it because. Because I don't want to do this without you, Castle."

His heart bursts and he wants to smile, wants to grin more than anything, but he doesn't dare when the look on her face is still so deadly serious.

She's not done.

"But most of all, Rick. I don't want _you_ to do this without me."

There it is again, that fleeting glimmer in her eyes, like the sun reflected off a shiny surface. But the sky outside is a uniform grey.

Something catches in his chest.

Is that - is that - what she's upset about? Not the fact that he went behind her back, not the fact that he all but betrayed her (*again*), but that he's taking risks on his own - without telling her?

No. Can't be. It's crazy.

Before he can say anything, though, she's talking again. "You're not - you're not a cop, Castle," and her voice is so gentle, almost like she's apologizing. If she only knew how many times he's heard that from his mother. "You don't have a gun, you don't have a badge, you don't have - anything to protect you."

This time the crack in her voice is deeper, more audible, and he cannot doubt anymore.

"You can't be doing this on your own," she concludes, and the fierceness in her eyes contrasts sharply with the softness of her words. "Do you understand?"

So badly. She wants to protect him so badly. It dazes him, his tongue a lifeless, useless thing in his mouth. Somewhere in there is a joke about her caring about him, but he's aware that it probably ceased being funny a couple months ago.

A couple years, maybe.

She seems to take his silence for a refusal, and she goes on, her despair more apparent with every forceful word, stabbing his heart with as many daggers.

"It's too dangerous, Castle. You hear me? It's too _dangerous_. I don't even know - why you would - especially after -"

She pauses, closes her eyes, struggling.

When she opens them again, they're rimmed with tears, and she's not even-

Not even trying to hide it.

"I can't lose you too," she says, and it's a fact, a command and a plea, all at once. Her chest lifts with the shaky breath she takes, and he sees it all, how fragile she really is, how...breakable. His beautiful, beautiful Kate.

"I can't lose you too," she repeats, a murmur, almost regretful; and this is what springs him into action.

He sits up and reaches for her, the position not right, the angle awkward, but it doesn't matter, doesn't matter as long as he gets to touch her, gets to hold her, to curl a hand around her neck and press his lips to her hair, her forehead, her cheekbone.

"You won't lose me, Kate. Not now, not ever. You will never lose me."

His other arm wraps around her waist and draws her into him, cradles her to his chest.

She lets him - _she lets him_, his brain repeats with joyful amazement - and even better, she mirrors his moves, her fingers digging into his back, her other hand fisting on his t-shirt.

"Never," he says again, and again, hoping to reassure this trembling stranger in his arms. With every deep breath she takes, her chest brushes against his, but he doesn't even pay attention to the tantalizing contact, because he thinks-

He thinks maybe she's crying.

* * *

><p>She hates herself for it, but there's nothing to be done.<p>

She already managed to hold back once, choked in his study on the tears she wouldn't shed, and now she can't keep the moisture from spilling on her cheeks, can't keep the agony locked in.

The agony of a life without him.

She can keep it quiet, however, and she does, gritting her teeth as she rests her forehead at the crook of his neck, forcing her breathing to slow down, her heart to relax.

She's not that girl who freaks out over her boyfriend being five minutes late. She's never been that girl, never wanted to. And he's not her boyfriend.

Although, she supposes, that's easily fixed.

Huh. Really?

Really, Kate?

Castle's warm and solid against her, an anchor, and her heart gentles, lulled by the soft sounds of his voice. _Really_, she thinks. It's time.

She waits until she's not drowning, until she's sure she can breathe without a sob, and then she slowly pushes back on his shoulders, puts a few inches between them. She looks up into his eyes, their dark, entrancing blue, and she watches as his whole expression shifts, awareness parting his lips, expectation creeping in, an hesitant awe.

Yes. Time.

Kate leans back in and pushes her mouth to his.

* * *

><p>To say that he's surprised is an understatement - he is confounded - and for the first time in nearly twenty five years, Richard Castle doesn't know what to do with his tongue.<p>

Oh, he wants her - that was never in question - but only a few minutes ago, she was _crying_ against his shoulder, for God's sake, and it just doesn't seem righ-

Her teeth scrap his lower lip, none too gentle, and he thinks_ Screw it_. He opens his mouth to her and kisses back with everything he has, pours it all in, his relentless love, the lingering embers of anger from the summer, his utter terror at the idea that Roy Montgomery's funeral could, one day, happen all over again.

And this time, he and Jim Beckett would be giving the eulogy.

Before he realizes it his fingers are tangled in her hair, digging into her skull; her tongue is a fierce, savage thing against his teeth, and the sound she makes when she presses into him is absolutely sinful, the sexiest thing he's ever heard.

He breaks away, panting hard, and his heart stops at the look of complete abandon on her face.

"Kate."

She slits her eyes open, heavy lids, smudged mouth. Divine. "Shut up, Castle."

He should. He really, really should.

"But you just-"

She cuts him off with two fingers, the flat of her thumb stroking his chin. The gesture is strangely sensual, and he feels himself quiver in response

"Don't," she orders again, softer, more intimate. His own voice is nowhere to be found.

Her index finger traces his mouth, lingers at the corner and then pauses on his bottom lip, a temptation he can't resist. He snags the adventurous finger between his teeth, licks it slowly, thoroughly, before he releases her.

Her eyes are shut tight and her breathing is fast.

Ah, damn, Kate.

He can't go back now. He can't put out the fire sizzling in his veins, can't tame the thrumming urgency in his heart. He lets his hand skim down, eager for skin, for the soft curve of her waist; she moans and shifts in his arms, her mouth finding his again, moist and rich and delicious.

He tries to move, fold his knee so his back won't be twisted, won't hurt so much; of course he's completely forgotten about his ankle by this point and the pain flares as a hot reminder, cutting off his air, making him jerk in surprise. Kate's eyes fly open, dark and uncomprehending; she stares at him in something like dismay, and he wants, so very badly, to wipe it off the curve of her mouth.

But he hesitates a second too long and it's enough for her to look down, wince, awareness creeping back in.

"Castle, I'm-"

He cuts her off because she can say something stupid like _sorry_, works at her mouth slowly, reverently.

"Don't," he commands quietly, his nose brushing hers.

She hums, presses another kiss to his lips, liquid and warm. "Okay," she breathes.

"Okay," he echoes, and he wraps himself around her, ignores his ankle, and holds her there.

Holds her there for a long time.

* * *

><p>His phone rings before their embrace can move from right to awkward; Kate is secretly grateful for it. She moves back to let him reach for it, then slides off the bed when he says, "It's Alexis."<p>

"Take it," she says. "I'll go get you a glass of water so you can take these pills."

His surprised eyes drift to the nightstand (she brought his meds back when she went out to take Esposito's call) and come back to her, a smile floating at the edge of his mouth.

He looks so thrilled every time she does something for him, however small. It's irritating and a little heart-breaking, too, but not-

Not completely unpleasant.

"Hey, sweetie," he says when Alexis picks up, and that breaks the spell, allows Kate to turn and step out of that intimate space, bubble, that his smile is so quick to create.

Once in the kitchen, she grabs a glass, but doesn't immediately go back; she leans into the counter instead, tries to slow the frantic thump of her heart, the bolting train of her thoughts.

So she kissed him.

Okay.

What - what happens next?

What happens _now_?

She presses her lips together, trying to smother the smile that wants out; since it fails dramatically, she rests her fingertips to her mouth, brushes them against the curve of her happiness.

Because she is. _Happy._

No matter the amount of questions, of uncertainty that swirls inside her chest, there's no mistaking that bright feeling that sparks at the core, sends a fizz of warmth down to her toes.

She concentrates on it, savors it, drinks in every tiny drop. She knows - knows all too well - how rare, how fragile it is. How easily broken.

How little it takes for your whole world to go dark.

She will hold on to it this time. It makes no sense, no sense to wait, not when they're both doing this job, her job - not when they've had too many brushes with death for her to keep count of them. And maybe - maybe this is what Dr. Burke has been trying to tell her all along.

She will never be perfect. She will never be whole.

Her mother will stay dead, no matter what.

And maybe she'll get closure, yes - maybe she'll get a clean start - but what good is waiting? Maybe all that matters is to admit that you can be better, that you want to.

That you will work on it.

And then.

Work on it together?

Kate smoothes down her shirt, realizes her hand is shaking, and sets the glass on the counter. She takes a timid breath, runs both hands through her hair.

She will never be perfect.

The truth of that hits her harder than it ever has, because she *is* such a sucker for perfection, for getting things right, as right as can be. She works tirelessly at it, at the truth, at getting answers and closing her cases, and that's - that's all part of it.

But even if she was - even if she was perfect-

Love isn't. Love is messy.

It's misunderstandings, it's stupid fights over little things that aren't worth it; it's making up too, and counting on each other, depending on each other, and they're - they're doing it already.

Aren't they?

Love is admitting you're flawed; that the other person is, too. And it happens, not _in spite_ of these flaws - but because of them.

_Because_ of them.

She's never loved anyone's faults before; she hated Will's habit of getting home so late, his moral rigidity, the way he always insisted on Sunday lunch at his parents'. She may have thought Josh's way of caring only when he had time for it was most convenient, but she never loved him for it.

With Castle, though-

She loves all the annoying quirks that he has.

His child-like enthusiasm, his crazy theories, his coffee-buying instincts. How he can be serious and playful, can be a dad and an overgrown kid, can joke at her even when his eyes are exuding this warm regard that makes her heart soar.

And surely there will be things that drive her crazy, surely there will be times when she seriously wants to hit him, but-

The things she'll hate him for - they'll be the things she loves him for, too.

That. That is something completely new.

And the discovery leaves her breathless, humbled.

So very grateful.

* * *

><p>He steps out of the bedroom as he says goodbye to Alexis, skillfully juggling the two crutches in one hand and tentatively putting weight on his injured foot; Kate is on the other side of the door and he stumbles into her, the two of them reeling before he manages to right himself.<p>

She gives him an arched eyebrow and a scolding look; he slides the phone into his pocket, grins at her. She's too close, her body too lean and warm for him not to.

"Hello there," he says, putting on an extra layer of smarmy charm, just to see her reaction.

He gets a closed-lipped smile, an almost eye roll, and delight ripples through his stomach.

He has her. He does.

Kate Beckett is in love with him. Or close enough.

"How's the ankle?" she says.

"Great. I can't feel anything."

His answer strikes some sort of struggle inside her; he can see it in her eyes, see the dark, playful spark coming to life. She steps closer and he holds his breath, feeling like a boy on his first date.

His many years of experience don't seem to play any role in his dealings with her.

Her exhales skirt his cheek before her lips press to his jaw; a gentle graze of teeth follows them, makes his insides flutter. Oh, Kate Beckett-

"So you didn't feel that?" she murmurs, teasing, the curve of her smile brushing his skin.

He suddenly remembers to breathe, can't remember when he closed his eyes.

"Huh," he groans, not sure he can form words at this point.

"Too bad," Kate says laughingly, her voice those soft, caressing sounds that he swears he can feel rolling down his body. She moves back and he catches her, a hand at her elbow while the crutch clutters to the floor.

"Castle," she says, and it may sound like a reproach, but her mouth is still smiling.

He kisses that smile, just because he can, memorizes every inch, every inflection with his tongue. She makes that soft keening sound at the back of her throat, and he murmurs into her lips, "Wanna play Risk with me?"

Her laughter is the most beautiful thing he's ever heard.

"I think maybe we've played enough board games for today, Castle. Not sure you can take another defeat."

He wants so badly to tell her that in the version he had in mind, there is no loser; but something in him holds back and then the occasion is lost.

"How about a movie?" she says.

Mm. A movie with Kate Beckett.

Snuggled in the couch, the length of her against him, his fingers dancing over her skin until she can't concentrate.

"Sure," he says.

"You can exercise your right to say no, Castle," she reminds him, taunting him with a glimpse of her tongue.

He smiles back, stays silent.

Why on earth would he want to say no?

* * *

><p>She ends up half on his lap, her legs sprawled across his, one of her knees resting against his chest. His fingers have curled lazily around her ankle; there's an exposed stretch of skin between her jeans and the socks she stole from Castle, and his thumb is resting there.<p>

She's completely fine with it.

Until it starts moving.

He strokes her foot at random intervals, light, unconscious moves that evolve after a while into whirling, more complicated patterns; twenty minutes of this treatment have her teeth brutally digging into her bottom lip, and he doesn't even seem to have noticed.

His eyes never stray from the massive TV screen.

_What the hell, Castle?_

The touch of his hand is both incredibly nice and incredibly distracting; she cannot keep her mind on the movie, not when she has to focus so hard to ignore every brush of his fingers.

And of course, he's chosen a film she hasn't seen, one with an intricate plot and a lot of action, and by the time they've reached the middle, she has no idea who's doing what and why.

She ventures a question, tries to make it sound like she's followed the whole thing; Castle laughs out loud. The sound is deep, rich, beautiful, and her skin ripples with it.

"You having trouble keeping track of the movie, Beckett?" he whispers with a smile, and she realizes she was wrong.

He's fully aware of what he's doing to her.

And while that knowledge would normally set her heart on revenge (oh, the things she could do to him) now it only sets her body alight. Because the idea that he's been doing this on purpose, been watching her all along - without betraying himself in the slightest?

Not even a look, a glance, the hint of a smile?

Kate swallows.

Yeah. Hot. That's just-

Such a turn-on. That he has this much self-control at his disposal. Her mind readily paints a few situations in which she could test that control; her cheeks burn and it's suddenly a little hard to breathe.

His eyes are on her now, an intense blue, the movie completely forgotten; he must realize exactly what state she's in, because his irises darken, glitter in the most attractive way.

For a second he looks like he's about to lunge at her, crush her with his weight, take her there, on the couch - and she's certainly ready for it, her whole body _yearning_ for contact - but then something like realization crosses his face, realization and a measure of sadness, of uncertainty that she doesn't want to see there.

Not now. Not ever.

"What?" she says, a little shocked at how breathless her voice sounds.

"Kate." He hesitates, studies her, reluctance in the line of his mouth. "What is this? What are we doing here?"

She wants to deflect, wants to say _I'd hope by now you'd have learned what this is_; but he's too serious, his eyes too brimming with timid hope for her to make fun of it.

She sits up and works her legs to reduce the distance between them; she sees his involuntary shiver, realizes his other hand is on her thigh, can feel the muscles pulling.

Huh. He likes the play of muscle.

She files that away - _later_ - and curls her palm around his jaw, her fingers feather-soft against his skin.

"Castle."

His eyes flutter shut, open again; he looks torn when he stares back at her. "Kate - I know - I know you surely don't want to put words on this, and I understand, I do, and I wish I could tell you I didn't mind - and maybe there_ was_ a time when I didn't mind - but the truth is, after everything - I'm sorry, I am, but I feel like I need-"

She hushes him with a caress of her thumb, her heart frantic in her chest.

How much he loves her.

She doesn't deserve it. Him. Any of it.

"It's okay," she breathes, watches tentative relief play in his eyes. "It's alright, Rick. It's alright to need."

He looks so shocked; it very nearly shatters her. She has to pause, suck in a trembling breath to soothe her bleeding heart, before she can speak again.

"You can - you are-" she presses her lips together, tries to steady herself, "You have a right to ask things from me. To expect things from me. I'm not - I can't promise to always give you what you want, what you need, but I can promise to try. I *will* try, Castle."

His mouth is parted, silent; she has to lean in and kiss those incredulous lips, act on her promise, even though the position stretches her abs and makes them quiver with the phantom pain from this summer.

It's not even pain; more like a ripple of memory. Her body remembers.

But then he kisses her back and it's all washed off, washed away by the exquisite love trickling through her, the tinge of arousal that seeps down to her toes.

He kisses her religiously; he kisses her like a man handed a glass of water after crossing a desert, who does not dare believe that he's finally there, that the water is safe to drink. That it's not just a vision of his overeager mind. A mirage.

Castle.

She pledges herself over and over again, using her tongue and her lips in a different way this time, an exhilarating dance, a dizzying ballet of promise.

She loves him,_ loves him_-

But she's breathless when he breaks away, and even if she wasn't, the slow, dazzling grin on his face would turn her words to ashes.

"So," he says, and his gruff voice abrades her insides, leaves her raw and wanting. "Can I tell Ryan and Esposito that you're my girlfriend?"

The laughing undercurrents in the words bring her back to herself.

"Do that, and you're a dead man, Richard Castle."

He chuckles, and it's like salt rubbed onto the open wound of her arousal.

"Just checking," he whispers.

She drinks his next words from his lips.

* * *

><p>Castle was right.<p>

It was worth the wait.

The first mouthful of tiramisu melts on her tongue in a glorious symphony of biscuit and cream, the beautiful, intoxicating taste of coffee suffusing the whole thing, caressing her taste buds in the most delicious way.

Decadent. Divine.

She manages to swallow without a moan, but when she opens her eyes he's watching her and she knows, she *knows* he's reading it all on her face, her parted lips, her heated cheeks.

And, well. She doesn't mind.

"Tasty?" he asks, little wrinkles like parenthesis around his smiling eyes. She loves the way he looks tonight, so relaxed and open; he seems like himself, for what feels like the first time in ages. Maybe for the first time since she walked into that bookstore at the end of the summer.

She was sitting on the other side of the table earlier, but he pulled her chair closer when she went to get the tiramisu from the fridge. So now she's next to him, their knees brushing against the table, shoulders flirting when she leans in. (Not that she's leaning in on purpose. Never.)

"Try it for yourself," she shoots back, arching an eyebrow.

He gives her the cute puppy dog look, lifts his hands, both of which are curled around the crutches. "I'm disabled."

She snorts a laugh, surprised by how he always seems to sneak those out of her. "Right. Like you didn't just eat your dinner with those hands, Castle."

He smiles brightly. "Please?"

She shakes her head at him. Really? He wants her to feed him now?

"I _so_ want to try that delicious tiramisu," he sighs dramatically, giving a longing look to the cake. "But my hands are already busy-"

"Castle. You're sitting down."

He pouts at her, that _Don't ruin my story with your logic _face that she's fairly familiar with by now, and she relents laughingly - she's just thought of a way to make this a lot more fun. Fun for her, of course.

"Fine." She closes her fingers around her spoon, divides a generous mouthful from her own share.

His eyes are twinkling gaily as she sets an elbow on the table for balance, then moves the spoon closer to his mouth; he closes his eyes and parts his lips, waiting.

Kate grins and swiftly changes directions; she shoves the biscuit and cream into her own mouth, moans in pleasure, makes a show of it. It's so good anyway; it doesn't take much effort.

"Oh," she sighs, letting her eyelids flutter against her cheeks. "Oh God, Castle. Hmm. So good."

She takes her time, makes it last as long as she can, and when she looks back at him, teasing, he's staring at her in a rather attractive mixture of vexation and desire. Uh-huh. He asked her to feed him, didn't he?

He should know better.

"You're so mean," he says, but the surface anger doesn't hold, and his arousal shines through the cracks, the rough patches in his voice.

She smirks, takes another spoonful of tiramisu, lets it linger in front of her mouth.

"You want it, Castle? You come and get it."

She's barely slid the spoon past her lips that he's already lunging at her; his fingers tangle in her hair, strong and hot, as he goes for her mouth. His warm tongue is a lovely contrast to the cool dessert, sweeping at her bottom lip before it comes back for more; she can tell he's doing both, tasting her _and _the tiramisu, and for some reason she just finds that-

So very. Very hot.

He growls into her mouth and she can't help it, moans back, her whole body responding to the aggressiveness, the thorough depth of his kiss, to his palm splayed at her abdomen. She lets her hands run from his waist to his shoulders, doesn't know where the spoon landed, doesn't care; her fingers find the collar of his shirt and tug, slide in, drawn by the warm skin underneath.

He jerks back, gasping; she doesn't expect it, lets go too easily.

There's shock in his eyes as they linger over her parted, panting lips, but it's the good sort - more like - amazement.

Yes.

He's amazed. She feels like humming in triumph.

After a beat or two, though, he gets that sly look on his face, and starts licking his lips, slow, tantalizing. Her triumph vanishes, drained off her by the sharpness of her need, her whole body aching.

Aching for him.

He smiles, a dark smile that makes her want to drag him to bed.

"Best tiramisu ever," he says.

* * *

><p>"Come to bed with me, Kate."<p>

It's late, and with only the kitchen's lights on, his face looks younger, softer. Fewer lines, but more intensity somehow.

She swallows, wavers.

He simply looks at her, genuine need mingled with that brilliant hope that makes her heart skip a beat or two; she averts her own eyes, tries to find her breath, rests her fingertips to her cheek. Her skin's too warm; she must be blushing. Damn.

She doesn't want him to think-

He laughs softly, and she looks back, surprised. And maybe a little miffed.

But his smile is so warm, so beautiful, so ripe with love that she cannot hold on to the annoyance. She just.

Wants to kiss him.

"I didn't mean it like *that*," he says somewhat teasingly, tilting his head. "Although I sure wouldn't have any objections to-"

"Castle."

If she wasn't blushing before, she is now. Seriously. How in the world did they get here? To the point where he can make her blush with a heartfelt truth? How did it go from those leering, raised-eyebrow looks to...this?

His serious face, eyes too tender as he hops a little closer. "What I meant is. I quite enjoyed finding you in my bed this morning."

She smiles, can't help it. Yeah. She kinda - she enjoyed it too. "And you want to repeat the experience, uh? Make sure it meets your expectations?"

Oh. It was supposed to be playful, but when spoken aloud the words sound so...awfully insecure. So unlike her.

Castle studies her, his dark blue eyes sparking a reaction in her stomach that she could do without; in the end he half-smiles, just the corner of his mouth lifting, so much quiet certainty on his face that she feels...naked.

Transparent. Like he can see right through her-

And he likes what he sees.

"I'm plenty sure," he murmurs, his voice deep, haunting.

He's looking at her and she's looking at him and it's like the certainty pours right out of him, into her, sudden and irrevocable; and she _knows_.

She knows. This is it.

She closes the space between them and winds her arms around his neck, lifts to her tiptoes so she can rest her mouth against his. It's a soft, gentle kiss, but it has an aftertaste of knowledge and forever that leaves her stunned, and a little breathless.

"I might have to go into work tomorrow," she breathes against his skin.

"That's fine," he groans into her ear, nipping at the shell with his teeth, sending a violent shiver through her body.

"I'll probably wake you," she pants, closing her eyes against the hotness of his mouth at her neck.

"So wake me," he says dismissively, his hand uncurling from her waist to slip under her shirt.

She arches, almost lets out a moan.

"Okay," she finally drops, unable to think of further objections. Oh - actually - "Castle, your ankle-"

He growls - _growls_ - and straightens up to look at her, fierce, determined.

"Beckett. Bedroom._ Now_."

She opens her mouth to protest, is silenced by the fire in his eyes. She remembers the night before - _you__, couch, now_ - and feels herself smirking at the perfect symmetry. He did obey her, didn't he?

Her turn now.

"Yes," she says, giving in, and the look of exultant arousal, of absolute joy on his face is one she never wants to forget.


	5. Chapter 5

His ankle does bother him a little. But they - hum - they find ways around it.

Really, _really_ nice ways around it.

"Oh," Kate pants into his chest afterwards, her body limp, boneless against him. He loves it, loves the feeling of smooth, malleable skin, loves knowing that he's responsible for it.

That _he _did this to her.

"Worth the wait?" he whispers against her hair, unable to keep the grin off his face.

She makes a soft sound between a snort and a laugh, lifts dark, dark eyes to him. "Almost as much as the tiramisu," she says with a pointed eyebrow; and then he's laughing, a deep belly laugh that cascades off him without his permission, delight and relief and pure joy at having her there.

With him.

"Ouch, Castle, my ear," she complains, lifting herself off his chest, giving him a look that is probably supposed to be a glare, but falls a long way off. She's too radiant tonight, her eyes too bright; even her cheekbones look like they're scintillating.

God, she's so beautiful.

Stunning.

He threads his fingers into her hair and brings her down to him, uses her gasp to slide his tongue past her surprised lips, stroke hers lovingly; the way she mellows into his kiss, moans into his mouth, lazy and languid, is just too good.

Kate.

He abandons her lips reluctantly after a while, but keeps hovering near, brushing at her nose, her jaw, her chin, unable to break away completely. He rests his hand at her waist, fingers curling around her ribs, and relishes the ripple of her skin at his touch. One of her legs is still tangled in his; her body feels hot, and _right_, against him.

She sighs at his neck, a warm, satisfied sound that tugs at his heart, and curls in closer, shifting to find the best position. When she stops moving, she has her eyes closed, and looks like she's already half-asleep; he runs a light finger across her cheek, pushes back a strand of dark hair.

Asleep or not - it will be okay. They will be okay.

He's confident enough now, hopeful enough to let them out. The words he's been holding prisoners for so long.

"I love you, Kate," he murmurs, his lips tracing the words to her forehead.

She hums, sleepy, groggy voice.

"Yeah," she mumbles. And then she's out for good.

Castle stays awake for a while longer. Grinning in the dark.

* * *

><p>When he wakes, she's draped all over him, a warm, breathing bundle on his chest.<p>

His body feels hazy, a light, floating thing, but her weight anchors him to the earth, to reality; his eyelashes flutter as he grabs a mental hold of her, hangs on, lets it slowly drags his mind up, away from the fogginess of sleep.

Mmm. He's not dreaming.

This is Kate Beckett, asleep against him. In his bed.

A man could get used to this, he thinks with a happy sigh.

Her arm is wound around his waist, her cheek pressed to his ribs; he can feel the lovely heat of her radiating down the lines of his own body. And then, as awareness dawns upon him, he realizes that she is truly curled around him, as close as she can get; that the soft, tender roundness crushed to his chest is-

Oh.

Oh, yeah. Niiice.

He closes his eyes again, smiling, willing to enjoy this as much as he can. His whole body buzzes with the pleasure of finding her here, in his arms; the sense of deep contentment that steals over him almost overshadows the more...physical aspects of his reaction.

He grins, wonders if it's worth trying to wake her up for an encore.

He's not too sure how she'll react to being woken up.

Which, he has to admit, is half the fun with Kate Beckett. The mystery, the not knowing; it's exciting and thrilling, makes him want to find out.

Makes him _very _intent on finding out.

"Kate," he murmurs, shifting, trying to give himself a little more leeway.

All he wants, all he needs, is space enough for his hand to wander-

Ah, yeah.

She sighs against him, moves a little. Her lips brush against his chest in a sloppy, sleepy kiss; he pauses his fingers, lets them splay on her abdomen, his thumb brushing against her belly button.

She shivers, but doesn't wake; he wants to kiss her so badly that it's not even funny anymore. All this smooth, lovely skin, and the dark sweep of her eyelashes; it's making him dizzy.

"Kate," he calls again, louder this time. He wants her awake, _needs_ her awake for what he wants to do to her, all those dark, dirty pictures in his mind-

She makes a soft sound - could be acknowledgement, could be a shorter version of, "let me go back to sleep" - and rubs her face against him. Seriously. Nose, forehead; she feels like a small animal nuzzling into his chest.

Ah, it's cute. Not something he would expect from her, but cute - just, totally not what he's going for right now.

Okay.

"Kate, love," he says, curious to see the word will bring her out of it. He also dips his hand a little lower. Just in case.

She trembles against him, lets out a soft gasp before she finally heeds him and looks up. Her eyes are dark, hazy through her lashes; she's warm under his fingertips, and so very gorgeous.

Oh. Oh, Kate.

He wants to kiss her, but he can't in this position, not unless he breaks his neck. Which would be counter-productive.

Still, he's considering it when she solves his problem for him, lifts herself off his chest so she can lean in, and meets his lips with hers.

She tastes like sleep, like slowly-spreading arousal and this distinctive Beckett flavor that he might be completely addicted to by now; he parts his mouth for her, lets her set the pace, enjoying the languid, haphazard skid of her lips over his.

Kate Beckett in his bed, for the second time in two days. This is bad for him; he's not sure he can ever let go again.

But maybe he's not supposed to. When he breaks the kiss - intending to come back for more - Kate's mouth pursues his; he feels the soft moan that vibrates in her throat, the smooth glide of her tongue along his lower lip, the way she braces herself against him, the press of her long, lean body, inviting, irresistible.

Mm, yeah.

Castle suddenly remembers where his hand is, curls his fingers with a wicked grin; Kate jerks against him, panting, shoots him an incredibly hot look, shock and sizzling desire battling in her wide eyes.

And then she kisses him deeper, more forceful, and the air stills in his lungs as he gives back, teeth, tongue, feels the hot, tantalizing play of muscle into his palm.

Her hand moves too - her hand - and - oh God - oh crap, Kate, _Kate_-

"Dad?"

Alexis's voice. Living-room. His mind takes longer than it should to register these two simple facts.

Fuck.

Kate freezes against him, rolls off a second later, breathless, her cheeks flushed, her hair tangled, looking lovelier than ever.

And all he can think of is, _Alexis. Have I taught you nothing?_

* * *

><p>When she hears his daughter's voice, realizes what it means - shit, <em>shit<em> - Kate slides off him immediately, and would roll off the bed if it wasn't for his hand on her wrist.

She glares at him, a naked leg half free of the covers, her cheeks heated. It's part leftover arousal, part growing self-consciousness, and there's just nothing she can do against it.

"Where you going?" Castle asks, and his tone seems a little too defensive for the situation.

"To put on some clothes, Castle," she hisses. "Unless you want Alexis to find me in here, like this." Oh god, no. _No. _The girl said, "Take care of my dad," and if she walks in on them like this she's gonna think-

Ug. Please, no.

"I don't mind," Castle replies with a shrug. "I mean, yeah, sure, it's probably not the best way for her to learn about us, but the end result is the same, right?"

She's shaking her forearm, trying to get his fingers off, but he doesn't seem to want to let go.

Arg.

"Castle."

"Kate." He sounds so calm and unaffected; she hates him a little, but it also helps her own quivering insides to settle. Damn him. "She's going to come in here, whether you like it or not. And I'm not going to try and hide you in the bathroom like some dirty little secret. No way. Not when you're so much more than that."

Her lips quirk into a smile at that, because in spite of everything, it warms her whole body to hear those words fall from his mouth.

He tugs at her, and she falls back into him, groans without conviction. "Castle."

"And. Kate."

She lifts her eyes to him; he looks so serious, so intense. Okay.

"This is *my* life," he murmurs, brushing his mouth to hers. "And you-" he stops to press a kiss to her cheekbone "-are the one I choose." His lips ghost her ear. "The one I would choose, over and over again, Kate. _You_ make me happy. And I don't need anybody's approval to know that. To be with you."

She stares at him, speechless, her heart still in her chest; she doesn't know what part to react to first, the fact that she makes him happy (she does?), or him basically declaring that he doesn't care what his daughter thinks.

He must read her disbelief on her face, because he laughs, squeezes her wrist gently, and gives her this slow grin that she loves. "I'm not saying I don't want Alexis to be okay with it. Of course I do. But I know that ultimately, she will. And I know that because - I love you, Kate."

His lips brush hers as he speaks the words, as if to soften the blow; but there's no need to soften anything, and she kisses him back fiercely, saying all the things that won't roll off her tongue yet.

"Let me grab a shirt at least?" she asks when they come apart, his fingers caressing her jaw.

He smiles, leans away to reach past his side of the bed, and comes up with the black t-shirt he was wearing last night, before she - took it off him. "Will that one do?"

A knock at the door startles them both; she wrenches the fabric from his hand, hastily pulls it over her head while Alexis calls, "Dad? Are you awake?"

"Yeah," he answers slowly, his eyes on Kate. She nods once, bracing herself. She's ready. As ready as she will get, anyway.

"You can come in, sweetheart."

The door opens.

* * *

><p>Alexis isn't sure what she expected to find, going home early like she did, but she had not really planned on this. Kate and her dad. In bed. Together.<p>

Okay.

Okay.

She takes a breath, attempts a smile.

"Hi. Dad. Kate."

At least Kate's wearing a shirt. Thank god. Alexis hates these embarrassing scenes in movies when the female character is holding the sheet to her chest, looking both stupid and awkward.

"Hello, Alexis," the detective says, and although her smile is genuine, there's a good measure of nervousness in it.

Good. so they're both uncomfortable.

"Did you have a good flight, pumpkin?" Her dad is *not* wearing a shirt, and Alexis doesn't know where to look, because although she's seen him shirtless more times than she can count, it's been a while since the last time she, hum, found him in bed with a woman.

He's always been so careful around her; she thinks Gina might actually the only one she's really...seen, in that bed. Wow. Yeah. Not even her mom-

"Yeah, yeah," she finds herself answering when she suddenly realizes his question is still hanging in the air. "I took the early flight because Mom had an audition today, and so I would have been hanging around the apartment on my own anyway, so I thought-"

She thought she'd go home to her poor injured daddy. Yeah. The 'poor' can probably be removed from that sentence.

"That's great," he says. "You did the right thing, Alexis. But you should have told me - I'd have come to pick you up."

Ah. The warmth in his blue eyes is authentic, yes, but she can also tell he would liked more...alone time with Kate.

Oh, shit, shit. But he should have told her - last night on the phone - if he had only hinted to it, then she wouldn't have-

"How's...your ankle, dad?" she asks, desperate for something to say. But then she involuntarily cuts her eyes to Kate and realizes - oh no, oh no - that it might sound like she's judging, disapproving, like she thinks his dad shouldn't be doing - whatever they've been doing - when he's hurt, and _oh_, damn, now she can't keep herself from picturing...

"It's fine," he answers, looking amused, at the same time as Kate asks, "Did you have breakfast already?"

Oh. Breakfast. She could kiss the detective right now.

"Hum, no. No, I just - grabbed a croissant at the airport," she says. "I'm still starving." Kate's face lights up, something like relief brightening her eyes, and Alexis feels it ripple through her too, some of the tension loosening in her chest.

"Well then, maybe we can all have breakfast together?"

The detective looks over at Alexis's father, a question in her eyes, and he smiles warmly. "If you give us ten minutes, I'll get some clothes on and meet you in the kitchen," Kate says, turning back to Alexis with a hopeful, hesitant, beautiful smile.

"Sure," the girl says, her breath strangling in her chest. Is this - are they- "So you guys are...together now?"

She half expects her dad to say _yes_ and Kate to say _no_, just because, well, that's how they seem to work, but while the _yes_ does come out as expected, Kate only looks at her with a small smile, gives a single nod.

Oh.

Oh. Good. Yes. Right.

"Okay," Alexis breathes out, and it hits for the first time, how pretty a picture they make, Kate's thin frame leaning into Alexis's father's larger built, the detective's dark curls catching the timid rays of sunlight that sneak through the window, the mirroring smiles on their faces.

The ease, the happiness they radiate is - almost too much. It hurts.

Even though she doesn't care about Ashley, she doesn't, she's forgotten all about him-

"I'm going to unpack," she says, pushing the words past her throat. "Meet you guys in the kitchen in ten."

And she retreats, escapes, the stupid tears bottled up in her chest.

This is _good_, she tells herself firmly as she hoists her suitcase up the stairs. This is what her dad has wanted for so long; this is the woman who makes him happy. And if Kate's into this too - if she's as committed as she seems to be-

Then it's good. More than good.

He must be so thrilled. The girl smiles a little, pauses to take a deep breath and drive away the rest of her unwanted emotions.

Her dad's happy. Finally.

Nothing else matters.

* * *

><p>Kate curses as she hunts for her missing bra, unsuccessfully goes through the scattered trail of clothes that they left behind. Oh, damn - to think Alexis saw this -<p>

She closes her eyes and sighs. It's done now, right?

Next time, she won't let Castle convince her so easily.

Next time. Huh. It's a little scary, how easy that thought came.

She picks up the last of her clothes - still no bra - and spins to look around; Castle is leaning on his crutches, closer than she thought, and she almost collides into his chest. He uses the occasion to steal a kiss, warm and gentle; it makes her want to hum, stretch lazily and push him back to the bed.

Do it slow this time.

"Have you seen my bra?" she asks, breaking away and forcing her brain past the hazy, appealing fantasy.

"Mmm, no," he answers, his teeth going for her ear next, making her shiver. Damn it, Castle.

"But I'm perfectly fine with you not wearing one," he offers, his voice dark and suggestive.

She takes a step back, smacks his chest, arching her eyebrows at him.

"Okay. Enough. If you're ready, and you're not going to help, then you can go wait for me in the kitchen, Castle."

He grins.

"Oooh. Am I grounded?"

Jeez, he makes it sound _so_ dirty. It's not even the words - she's heard much, much worse - it's his voice, his goddamn voice, low and beautiful, so sensual, that wraps around her heart like a deadly web.

"Seriously," she hisses, poking at his ribs. "What is wrong with you? Your daughter is next door and-"

He is laughing now. Why is he laughing?

"_What_?"

"And you call _me_ easy, Kate?" he says, looking way too delighted for her taste.

Ug. He's playing her? That's what it was?

Shit, and if the heat burning her cheeks is any indication, it worked, too. She sinks her teeth into her bottom lip, looks away. Her eyes land on a patch of navy blue lace that sticks out from under the sheets, and she steps away to grab it with a triumphant exclamation.

She has no idea how it landed there. She's pretty certain she was already naked when-

She turns back with the question on her lips, but it dies off when she sees the look on Castle's face. Oh. Obviously, *he* remembers.

"Need help with that?" he says, tilting his head, giving her a look that is both hot and tender at the same time.

Oh, man. She's never going to get dressed.

"Out, Castle," she commands, pointing to the door, trying to ignore how raspy her voice sounds, raw with arousal.

He stares at her for a moment longer, looking like he's not going to obey at all.

"Go see Alexis," she insists, and finally, finally, he moves towards his study.

Relief, she tells herself, _relief_ is the only thing swirling in her stomach. No disappointment.

"Don't be too long," he says, pausing at the door to look back at her; and the thing is, he looks entirely too sincere.

Arg. _Castle._

"_Go_," she orders, waving him off. The moment he disappears, she lets herself sink down on the bed, lays back into the sheets with a long sigh.

She's never going to survive that man, is she?

* * *

><p>He watches shamelessly as Kate and Alexis dance around each other in his kitchen, passing the salt, the eggs, and whatever the other is asking for.<p>

They made him sit at the table, both of them adamant that he shouldn't be doing anything; so he chose the chair that gives him the best view, and has been studying his women ever since.

Yeah. Because they're his women now, aren't they? The phrase that only encompassed his mother and Alexis before has just had its meaning extended, enlarged, opened wider to include his partner, his friend. His love. The thought makes it very hard to restrain the idiotic grin that threatens to burst onto his face at any moment.

The snippets of conversation that he catches between Kate and his daughter seem hesitant, a little stilted, maybe - but he's not worried. He just has to look at the way they move around each other, so graceful, so natural, to know that it will be fine.

They will all be fine.

They'll just have to adapt to a new normal. Alexis, after all, isn't used to sharing him. Ah, not exactly true - he does spend a fair share of his time at the precinct - but she's not used to sharing him _here_, in the loft that has been their cocoon for the last sixteen years.

He's proud of her for the way she tries, though, proud that she even let Kate this close, that she allowed her to care for him, until Alexis's return. Delegate. This is what Alexis did - she delegated.

He's impressed.

His daughter is usually not very big on letting anyone else step in for her. He wouldn't say she's a control freak - of course not, she's his daughter - but she does like to have things go her way.

He always says she was an easy kid, and it's true, but what's also true is that _he_ was an easy dad; they rarely got in each other's way at all.

He wonders what kind of a mother Kate would-

Whoa. Hold your horses, Rick.

They're not...not quite there, yet.

"Castle."

He looks up to find Kate in front of him, putting plates and glasses on the table; she turns to him last, produces the box of pain medication.

"Might want to take one of those," she says, studying him like he's a suspect with a flimsy alibi. "How's the ankle?"

He moves it a little, testing his limits. "It's honestly not so bad," he answers, surprised. "I think I can do without the meds for a while longer, Kate."

She presses her lips together, considering him, and lifts her hand to push her hair back, tuck it behind her ear. His heart flips, stupidly taken by how very casual, how natural she looks in his home, asking questions and making decisions about his health.

"Okay," she says slowly, tilting her head. "But the moment it starts hurting, you promise you'll take them?

He smiles, bathed all over again in gratitude for seeing her so involved, caring for him.

"Dad. Kate asked you a question."

Alexis sets the bacon on the table and gives him a pointed look as she gathers her red hair in a long ponytail; Kate looks startled at the intervention, but pleased at having back-up.

"Yeah, yeah. I promise," he grins, unable to help himself.

One day - maybe not so far from now - he might not enjoy having them team up against him quite so much. But for now?

He's freaking ecstatic.

"Sooo. What do we have for breakfast?"

He rubs his hands together, and Alexis gives him an incredulous look.

"Unless your sprain has somehow affected your sense of sight _and_ your sense of smell, I think you can wait two minutes and find out, Dad."

Something like a chuckle comes from the kitchen, where Kate is tipping scrambled eggs onto a plate; he gives her a narrow-eyed look that she doesn't see, and it's just as well. He can't hold it for more than two seconds.

"Fine," he says, turning back to his daughter with a long-suffering sigh. "But you could be a little nicer about it. I *am* a poor injured man."

"Oh, I think Kate's been nice enough for two already," Alexis shoots back with an arched eyebrow.

He spurts out a disbelieving laugh, more discomfort than amusement really - did his daughter just imply...? - and risks a glance at Kate. She froze on the way back to the table, is staring at them, her cheeks flushed, her mouth half-open.

Uh-oh.

His daughter turns, following his gaze, blushes profusely when she realizes Kate heard it all.

"Oh. Uh. Detective Beckett, I didn't - I didn't mean-"

Kate's phone chooses that moment to ring, saving them from an, oh, so awkward situation; his partner excuses herself and picks up with a brisk _Beckett,_ leaving Rick alone with a mortified Alexis.

"You didn't mean - what, exactly?" he can't help teasing.

His daughter groans, presses the heels of her hands to her eyes. "Dad."

He grins, lets her stew for a little bit before he leans in to curl an arm around her shoulders. Alexis hides her face into his shoulder and he thinks, with a surprised, joyful heart, that she's still his little girl after all.

"I'm just - I'm so sorry. I don't even know why I said that. Ug, Dad-"

"Don't worry, pumpkin," he says warmly, kissing the flaming hair that he loves. "Kate will live. She's tough."

"Who's tough?" Kate emerges from his office, phone in hand, and he smiles at her.

"You are."

She looks like it too, looks every bit like the no-nonsense detective who crashed his book party, years ago, to bring him back to the precinct. No trace of the soft-eyed woman from this morning, with her tender mouth.

"Dead body?" he asks, knowing the answer already.

"Yeah," she answers, and the touch of regret in her voice does more for him than any admission of love could, unwinds whatever tension is left inside him, gentles the raw places around his heart.

She doesn't want to leave.

Kate Beckett doesn't want to leave him.

She comes back all the way to the table, puts a hand on her hip, her bottom lip curled between her teeth as she looks from him to Alexis, and back.

"Go, Kate," he says gently, nudging her with a hand on her thigh. "Go do your job. Arrest bad guys. Make them confess. We'll be fine."

Something flickers in her eyes, so fast, and she nods, steps back. "Right."

What-

He stares at her back, uncomprehending, as she stalks away, disappears again into his bedroom. What did he say?

"Dad," Alexis whispers urgently, pushing on his shoulder.

"What?" he answers the same way, lifting his hands in puzzlement. "What did I do?"

"Just. Go after her," his daughter orders, grabbing one of his crutches from the floor and putting it in his hand.

He's scrambling to his feet when Kate comes out, her bag in hand; she frowns at his efforts to keep himself balanced on one feet.

"Castle, what're you doing?"

Bag. She's leaving?

"I'm, uh. Walking you to the door. Like a good host."

She looks like she's going to say something, but she gives up, heads to the door instead. He watches her slip on her heels, hops closer, his heart desolate. She's leaving?

For good?

"You can - leave your bag here, you know," he says, can't help it, even though he knows it's a bad idea. He can't even make it sound nonchalant and unaffected.

She flicks her green eyes back to him, her lips twisting as if she's repressing a smile. Oh, that's good. Smile. Smile is good.

"This was always the deal, Castle," she points out gently. "I was only supposed to be here until Alexis came back. Alexis is here now, and the precinct needs me, so..."

"Still. You could leave your bag here."

Oh, man. He sounds like a moron, repeating himself over and over again. He sounds like he's trying to _make _her, and that's-

Not good.

Not good, Castle.

But Kate smiles, her lips parting on a glimpse of teeth. She glances over his shoulder, as if making sure where Alexis is, and then steps closer, her heels putting her exactly at the right height, her mouth brushing his jaw.

He shivers, in surprise or delight, he's not sure.

"You don't trust me, Rick?" she murmurs against his skin. "You need a guarantee that I'll come back?"

"I need you," he answers without thinking, her hot breath on his neck far too distracting.

He feels her sharp intake of hair, curses his big mouth and his runaway brain, opens his eyes again. But she's still here, still hovering close, dark eyes studying him, her face tender again.

More Kate, less Beckett.

"Come back for dinner," he says suddenly, trying to inject some confidence, some manliness to his voice, instead of that pitiful whine.

Kate laughs softly, shakes her head in that light manner that means she's going to say no.

"Please," he adds before she gets a chance to. "Please, Kate." He cups her cheek with his hand, brushes his thumb under her eye, kisses her top lip. He feels her mouth respond under his, faint but there, and he kisses her again, deeper, darting his tongue to hers before he moves back to whisper, "Please. Kate. Please. Please. Plea-"

"Okay, okay," she cuts him, her eyes laughing, her fingertips pressed to his mouth to shut him up. "Jeez, Castle. You're high maintenance."

He beams at her, ridiculously pleased, both with her answer and her comment. "I think you're the first woman ever to tell me that."

She smirks at him, but he can see a flash of satisfaction in her eyes, too. She likes that, huh? Being the first.

"I need to go," she says, taking a step back, and there it is again. That little flicker of regret. It's crazy what it does to him.

He catches her mouth with his, unwilling to part with her, to let her go at all; she makes a small sound into his lips, pushes him back with a hand on his chest. "Castle, I almost forgot."

She reaches into her pocket, takes out a pair of keys. Ah, right. His mother's keys.

He doesn't want them.

Kate dangles them from her index finger, smiling like she knows exactly what he's thinking. How reluctant he is.

"Rick. Take them."

He obeys half-heartedly; the metal feels cool and unwelcome in his palm.

"I'm not quite ready to move in yet," Kate adds teasingly, with an arch of her eyebrow and a lovely curve of her lips.

He looks at her, speechless, stunned; and she must find that hot, somehow, because she leans in and presses a hard kiss to his mouth.

"Besides, it's nicer this way," she murmurs. "I get to knock, and let you know I'm here."

He hums in agreement - he would agree with anything she said, at this point - and she laughs again, low and throaty; he wants to just - take her back to bed-

"Alright," she says, letting go of him with a pat on his chest. "I'm late, and I'm going. Have fun with Alexis, Castle. Careful with your ankle."

"I will," he calls back, watching her walk away and loving the spring in her step, the confidence and the grace that radiate off her.

He can still taste her, can still smell her all over his clothes - and she's coming over tonight.

The world hasn't looked so bright in a long time.

* * *

><p>They end up spending the afternoon sprawled on the couch, watching old cartoons from Alexis's childhood; when they reach the end of the dvd, her father decides that it's time for Star Wars, but no amount of nudging and whining can make her move.<p>

She's way too comfortable.

"Alexi-is," he says insistently, stretching the last vowel for as long as he can, and rhythmically pushing on her foot as he does.

She solves the problem by folding her leg, and putting her foot out of his reach.

Her dad pouts.

"I want _A New Hope._"

"I thought you had that already," Alexis replies with a sly smile, shifting so she can get a better view of his face. They each have one end of the couch to themselves, their legs tangling in the middle; her dad's wrapped ankle rests against her thigh, safely maintained by two cushions.

He lifts surprised eyes to her, but a smile blossoms on his face as he catches her meaning; his daughter is not sure she's ever seen that expression on him, so tender and hopeful, radiant.

"Ah. I...guess I have?" he says, his voice low and a little dazed, almost timid. Oh, wow.

_Wow_. Her father's in love.

Alexis's heart catches in her chest, because she's *never* seen him looking like that, and if this is his _I'm in love _face, then-

Oh, Dad.

"So what happened?" she asks, curious and touched at the same time, wondering at that man who looks like Richard Castle, yes, but a younger, happier version of him.

All the little wrinkles smoothed out by the beam in his eyes.

"What do you mean, what happened?"

Huh - is he _blushing_?

Alexis laughs, cannot curb the delighted giggle before it's out her lips. Richard Castle blushing - a sight unseen.

"Not _that_, Dad. Although, well - do I need to give her the talk?"

He huffs a laugh, runs a hand down his face. "Ah, I uh, don't think that will be necessary."

"Her intentions are pure?" Alexis questions, teasing.

Her dad groans, looks at her from between his fingers. "Who are you and what have you done with my daughter?"

She grins. "I thought the resemblance had never been more obvious."

He laughs at that, really laughs, the deep rumble that she loves, that makes his belly shake, and he sits up to grab her wrist and pull her into him, tickling her as he does.

"Dad! Stop it!" She squirms, but there's no escaping him, not when he has a strong arm wrapped around her waist, securing her into place. He blows a raspberry in her neck and she shakes her head, shivering, hits his shoulder in the process.

"Dad. I'm not five years old anymore."

He stills, sighs, and even though it's the truth, she kinda regrets saying it.

"I know," he murmurs, and he leans back against the couch, taking her with him. It's always been her safe place, the warmth of his chest, the nest of his arms, and Alexis curls up into it, rests her cheek to his heart.

Her daddy.

"So what happened?" she asks again, softly, the curiosity still prickling inside her. "Did Kate suddenly realize her undying love for you?"

She's only half-joking, to be honest, because she thinks there's been feelings on both sides, for longer than either of them is ready to admit. Then again, maybe it's just her romantic nature speaking.

Her father hums, and she can tell he's smiling just by the tone of his voice.

"Not...exactly," he says. "But, yeah. Close."

Alexis knows better than to ask another question; she just has to wait.

He can never resist the urge of telling a good story.

"I just think," he says slowly after a moment, "that it was - time."

Time? She cranes her neck, tries to get a glimpse of his face. He's staring into space, lips pressed together, pensive.

"And maybe it was - spending that time together, without the excuse of the precinct, of the murders, you know? Just. Having Kate here, willing to do this for me, to commit herself to helping me-"

He pauses, contemplating his words (Alexis knows _exactly_ how he works), then smiles.

"It made me realize that maybe I wasn't giving her enough credit. I was laying back, waiting for her, thinking she wasn't ready, when in fact..."

"She was more ready than you'd thought?"

His hand stills on Alexis's back, stops tracing soothing circles as he takes her words in.

"Yeah," he says, with a smile in his voice, as he squeezes her a little tighter. "Yeah, she was."

Alexis sighs and lifts up to kiss whatever part of him she can reach - his chin, as it happens. "That's good, Dad."

"Uh-huh," he agrees, grinning now. "It is. It's very good."

"Hey now. I don't want to know," she jokes, settling back against his chest and swatting his arm.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I thought you were the one asking questions."

Alexis gives a noncommittal grunt.

They fall silent for a while, comfortable enough with each other, and their own thoughts, until her dad nudges her hand.

"Hey. You okay with this?"

She smiles, turns knowing eyes to him. "Does it matter?"

He chuckles, but answers more seriously than she'd expected. "What you think will always matter to me, pumpkin."

"But it won't change your decision," she says, because she knows - she can see it in his eyes. And it's probably a good thing. He does need to live his life for himself; before Kate came around, Alexis never realized how much of her dad's life revolved around her.

So much. Too much.

He doesn't answer, though, and Alexis hastens to add, "And it shouldn't, Dad. I can see that now. But anyway - you know I love Kate, right?"

"You do?"

His voice sounds more uncertain than it should; his daughter shifts in his embrace, sits up a little and meets his eyes.

"Yes. Yes, Dad. I do. I think - I think Kate's an amazing person. And of course, no one's perfect, and she has her problems, just like everyone, I know, but... What matters is that - that you think she's right for you."

His eyes shimmer when he looks at her, and he curls both hands around her cheeks, just like he did when she was little, and crying - he would wipe the tears off her face with his thumbs then. How easy it was.

"She is," he says, his voice raw and tender, and Alexis smiles, smiles, because she just can't hold it in anymore. So happy. She's so happy for him.

"Then I think we're all good," she says, and she wraps her arms around his neck, kisses his cheek, and hugs him.

"All good," he echoes, the words strangled and yet so joyful, and he holds onto her like he never wants to let go.

* * *

><p>At six, Castle is already cooking, putting all his extra energy into hopping around the kitchen.<p>

He steadily ignores Alexis's efforts to make him sit down -_ "_Dad, really, come watch Star Wars. This is the best part, when they freeze Han" - and instead of watching Han Solo reply to Leia that _he knows_, the writer anxiously puts together ingredients, agonizes over whether or not Beckett likes zucchini.

He thought she did, but now he has this weird memory coming back to him - a couple weeks ago, he grabbed lunch for the team, brought it back to the precinct, and there were a few complaints. About zucchini.

Maybe it was Ryan? It must have been Ryan.

Still. He'll keep the zucchini for another time.

At seven, he has the table set, despite the partly annoyed, but mostly pity-filled looks his daughter keeps giving him ("Dad, don't you know how late you get home when you're working?").

He's vaguely ashamed at the way she says it, but he can't help the little spark of warm that flickers in his chest. _When he's working. _He likes that. Being at the precinct does feel like a real job now, and he's glad at least another person feels the same way.

Well. He thinks Kate does, too. When she calls him her partner, she means it; it sends his mind into overdrive every time.

At eight, he's pacing the living-room - or well, as close to pacing as he can come with crutches - and staring stubbornly at his phone although Beckett hasn't texted him back all afternoon. He tried reading, tried watching TV with Alexis, but he's restless; he just can't stay put. The food smells tantalizingly good, and all he wants is for her to get here.

Get here already, Beckett.

By nine, he's thoroughly disheartened. He texted Ryan and got no answer, which means the boys are probably busy too, which means the case isn't solved and they're working on it, but that's not-

It's not as reassuring as it should be.

What if she leaves the precinct at ten, eleven? What happens then? Will she decide it's too late, will she just - go home? To her apartment?

She said. She said she would come, she said "okay"...

Oh.

Oh, he's an idiot.

He begged her, pleaded with her, whined like a baby, and he expects her to show up now?

This is Kate Beckett. The woman who hides away for three months, who heals alone, who thinks everything through. She's _not_ like him; she actually likes being on her own. She likes having time to think.

She just spent three days with him, in his home, and when she finally gets to leave, he makes her promise that she'll come back for dinner?

He collapses into the couch, throws his head back, covers his eyes with one hand, groans.

Stupid. Stupid, Castle.

He checks his phone again, but still no text, of course. Maybe she's home. Maybe she's ignoring him.

No. No. She would tell him. She would at least let him know. Beckett can be stubborn, she can be cold, she can be angry, but she's never heartless. She wouldn't let him stew, wouldn't let him wait if she didn't plan on showing up.

That still leaves the option of her staying at the precinct until the middle of the night - he can picture it, the look on her face when she lifts her eyes to the clock, realizes it's much too late to stop by the loft. His heart drops at the thought. Too likely for his taste.

She would text him, though. If that happened. She would text him, and if he can just stay up, wait for her-

He'll text her back. Tell her to come anyway.

Castle smiles, pleased with his plan, comforted. This is what he'll do. He'll wait. As long as it takes.

His stomach grumbles loudly, clearly disagreeing with his head, but he dismisses it. He can find something to snack on, can even eat a little bit of his dinner; it doesn't matter. The food's not important; the food is just an excuse. He told Alexis she could eat, anyway, because she was starving and wanted to go to bed early - long day - so it will just be Kate and him.

He's struggling with a sentence for the next Nikki Heat, his laptop on his knees, when a knock on the door startles him at 9:27. He looks up, a little breathless, wondering if he's dreamed it.

Another rasp on the door, softer this time, and he's on his feet; it's pure luck that the computer lands on the couch and not on the floor, because he's put his weight on his left foot, and he's too busy biting his tongue in pain to pay any sort of attention.

He grabs the crutch that is nearest to him, beelines for the door, doesn't even check who it is before he yanks it open.

Kate Beckett is standing on the other side.

He lets himself feast on the sight of her, the relief tasting like sweet honey at the back of his throat; she looks tired, her hair gathered in a messy knot at the back of her neck, and she's still wearing the clothes from this morning.

She didn't even stop at her apartment. He feels guilty for doubting her.

"I'm sorry I took so long," she says, rubbing her fingertips to the curve of her eyebrow, taking him in.

She sees too much, he can tell. She sees everything, every second he spent waiting for her, every moment peering at his phone; he can't hide from her. Never could. Still, he doesn't look away, not even when she starts worrying her bottom lip.

"The case just got...more and more complicated," she sighs, taking a step forward. "And then Gates wanted an update, but that turned into half an hour sitting in her office, listening to her complaining, and-"

He silences her with his mouth, tender, gentle; he doesn't want her excuses, doesn't need them. Just the glorious relief of her, the sweet song of her body against his, the lines of them merged - it's enough. It's everything.

All he needs.

* * *

><p>In all honesty, she did consider going home. Not for long - no more than a couple seconds - but the day just dragged on and on and <em>on, <em>and those last thirty minutes in Gates's office were just...too much.

She needed the quietness, the isolation of her own place, the relaxation of a bath and a glass of wine before going to bed.

She came here instead.

She promised him. And if she's going to do this, if she's going to be with him, then she will do it well.

She'll give him what he needs, especially when it's this easy. When it just means giving a different address to the cabbie.

And the best thing, she thinks as she kisses him back, her fingers warm around his neck, his mouth moist and rich against her tongue, is that she doesn't even regret it. Not even a tiny, tiny bit.

His hands on her waist are better than a bath; his breath in her ear is better than silence.

Kate kisses him until she's dizzy, until she's breathless, until he's the only thing in her world; no murders, no Gates, no conspiracy - nothing but the solid breadth of his chest, the demanding tug of his fingertips, the exhilarating taste of his tongue.

"Castle," she murmurs into his lips then, drowned with gratitude, with her love for him.

She feels him smile, and warmth coils up in her stomach in response, crackling, delicious.

"Come in," he says, pulling her with him.

_Yes._


End file.
